An Auspicious Adversary
by nomad1328
Summary: Post No Reason events, House and crew figure things out.
1. A Glancing Blow

An Auspicious Adversary

Nomad1328

Summary: A No Reason speculation fic. Occurs during and post No Reason. House and Co. struggle to find meaning and heal wounds. Sorry this comes late. I started this right after No Reason aired and it turned into a monster. Good news is that it is FINISHED and not a WIP. If you're looking for straight up action sequences, fluff, or romance, this is not the place. Character study contained within.

HUGE thanks to Armchair Elvis for wreaking havoc on every creative cell in my thick head. This would've been half a story otherwise…

Oh- and Author accepts all constructive critiques/reviews/and shameless admiration (ha!).

_People stand in line  
A premonition of the killers angel eyes  
An Armageddon sky tell it like it is  
It's like the old man says  
We're dead in the water now  
_

_-David Gray_

_Dead in the Water_

Chapter 1: A Glancing Blow

He never expected that Death would look like this: the half inch barrel of a solid black handgun, framed by the blurry image of its wielder. House had always thought death would either look like black asphalt, or maybe the side of a car. Or perhaps it looked like the last drink he'd had the night before, pale amber and burning on the way down. But it looked like a man with a gun. And it smelt like gunpowder. "Who would want to hurt you?" The question hung in the air, thick, sarcastic, and House had no good answer, even if he could think or speak. Instead, he stared, uncomprehendingly, down the muzzle of the black pistol held pointed at his head.

The man's stance, his sudden swing of the gun towards them, had forced Foreman, Chase, and Cameron into immobility as House lay on the floor, motionless and silent. Time slowed, stretching like a rubber band between two fingers. Moments passed and all each could hear were their own heartbeats, their own breaths.

Medical training, even in the emergency room, didn't equip anyone with the ability to look down the barrel of a loaded gun. Chase could honestly say he'd never seen a handgun up close. Cameron had fired one when she was ten. But Foreman had almost bought one from his brother's best friend.

Time stretched further until the thin veneer of continuum developed fissures. It wouldn't last much longer. The tension was insurmountable.

As the gun went back to House and the shooter took aim, Foreman, unable to stand by anymore, perhaps still brain damaged and beyond rationality, or perhaps acting on the instinct he had gained at fifteen, decided to do something.

All it took was half a second and Foreman was dragging the shooter to the ground as the gun exploded the second time. Foreman threw himself on top, the man underneath struggling to maintain his hold on the gun. Time moved forward again. Their colleague's actions igniting them, Cameron and Chase began moving as well. Cameron moved, instinctively, to her boss, accessing, theorizing.

House was unconscious and unmoving. The second bullet had clipped his neck and blood flowed from the wound, hinting at the damage done by the projectile.

Ninety five percent of penetrating wounds to the neck are caused by guns or knives. Cameron wasn't sure why the phrase, seemingly out of a textbook, had so easily come to her. She thought she'd read it years ago, as an intern but now it came to her as a string of phrases rotating behind her eyes. The neck is a hard target, compared to the rest of the body, its surface area limited and moreover, shaded by the jaw. Most of the gunshot wounds to the neck (some would guess that it's close to 100) are by accident. A shooter aims for the head, a tricky, movable extension, and accidentally hits the neck. Or perhaps crossfire results in a lucky (or unlucky) wound. Between three and six percent of penetrating neck wounds are fatal and most of the victims die before they ever reach emergency care. Exsanguination and respiratory failure often result if prompt action is not taken to stop the bleeding and re-establish the airway. A zone 2 injury, the zone between mandible and clavicle, is not the most fatal of zones, but is still susceptible to extraordinary damage. The intricacies of the structures carrying blood to and from the face and brain require precision to correct, but skill to miss should the shot actually hit the unintended target. The internal jugular vein, carrying blood from the brain and face lies just centimeters below the surface of the skin. The carotid artery, carrying urgent life to the brain, lies close by. Hitting either of these results in significant blood loss, with carotid damage being deadliest. The blood loss or the body's resulting attempts at clots can easily result in stroke or ischemia. And if the bullet hits the vertebrae and underlying spinal column, paralysis is inevitable.

House appeared lucky by Cameron's first estimation. The wound was to the right side of his neck, apparently external to the larynx, esophagus, and the vertebrae. There was no way to tell exactly the extent of the damage, but House was breathing. Check: Airway, Breathing. But the rapid flow of blood and expanding bruise underneath told Cameron that it was a serious injury. House's breathing, steady for the moment, would deteriorate due to the blood flowing into the surrounding structures, compacting the space intended for expansion.

Cameron was on her knees, pressing her hand to the neck, gently, but firmly, to avoid exacerbating the wound. Her medical training was kicking into gear and the patient's identity shouldn't have mattered, but she accidentally let her gaze slide to House's face- his droopy eyes closed to her- unable to convey the emotion they so often easily portrayed. At the thought, his eyes popped open suddenly, before fluttering closed again. "get… hands off…" he muttered, his lips almost sneering.

Cameron's training was misplaced by his words and she blanched, letting her hand fall slack for a moment, feeling the stickiness run between her fingers.

Medical treatment, by its very nature, is an intensely personal activity, which is completed in an intensely impersonal way. This intensity often falls into a false sense of security, belonging, and even undue attachment by the recipient. Someone who knows the inside of you can presumably see right through your lies and anticipate your desires.

Sex has a similar effect. Cameron thought of the single handshake that House had given her, how it had sent a shiver up her back. The only other time he'd actually touched her was to pull her arms around him when on the back of his bike. He'd threatened, stood in her personal space, touched her mouth with a cue-tip, but he'd never touched her otherwise. Most people touched each other in some way- a touch on the back, a pat on the shoulder. House never touched anyone and least of all, Cameron.

Doctors are taught to be scientific, impersonal. The more impersonal, the less the doctor will feel attached, the less the patient will need their attachment. But this was someone she knew. Someone she cared about. She was already attached and her focus was momentarily lost. Her free hand errantly, hesitantly, touched his forehead, feeling the clamminess there. "Oh god…"

She looked to her colleagues, seeing Chase running towards the desk. Foreman was sitting on top of the shooter, his knuckles shining and wet, his breath coming in gasps. The man appeared unconscious and Cameron couldn't see where the gun had landed. Seeing Chase and Foreman acting, Dr. Cameron's hands once again took it upon themselves to follow their example, and she found them putting more pressure on the neck wound, but also taking note of the abdomen. The hand on House's forehead moved to the wound at the abdomen, pressuring again.

Chase, his face crinkled into disgust, took the gun by its barrel from the floor. The gun had dropped from the attacker's hand once Foreman's fist had impacted with his nose. Chase picked it up and half ran, half walked to the desk. The gun was warm to the touch and its appearance betrayed its heaviness. Chase, having had no experience except second hand glimpses through the eyes of a movie camera, was afraid of going anywhere near the trigger. He knew there was a safety, but was too hurried to look for it. Instead, he gripped the barrel and carried it, pointed to the ceiling, arm outstretched, to the desk. The metal hit the glass desk with a resounding thunk, despite his gentle placement. His call to security was quick and terse. "Dr. House has been shot. We need security and a gurney." Chase was nearly shouting. "Stat," he added automatically. "GSW to the abdomen and neck. Get the ER ready." He hung up before a response was emitted.

His next movements took him to the cabinets above the sink, pulling every available material from its shelter. Forks, utensils, mugs, the miniature first aid kit all fell to the sink, clattering against the metal there. Chase grabbed the towels first. The gloves were secondary, as well as the scissors. He ran the three steps back to House and Cameron.

He threw two of the towels next to House's head and tossed one to Cameron, kneeling by House's waist, opposite of his colleague. His knees ached with the force that he had dropped to them, but adrenaline hid the pain away for later. He threw a pair of gloves at Cameron and watched as she struggled with them. She'd gotten some of the blood off with the towel, but the stickiness hadn't left. "They're coming," he said, putting his gloves on with practiced ease and pressed his hands to House's neck, staunching the rapid flow while Cameron worked on her gloves.

As soon as Cameron had gotten her gloves on and resumed her position at his neck, now using both hands, Chase released.

"They better get here fast, he's going to bleed out," Cameron muttered. "Check his stomach." Chase was already at it, pulling apart House's shirt, buttons flying, revealing the wound in his abdomen, seeping blood. Red on white. His hands went there immediately, pressing down.

House's eyes fluttered open with a groan and he lifted his head from Cameron's grasp. "No, House… you're…"

"...stitches…" he muttered and was unconscious again. Cameron had a finger at the pulse at his neck.

Cameron spoke. "He's already getting thready. Where's that gurney?" Pinched, afraid, nervous.

Chase watched as Cameron wiped the blood from House's neck, examining. There was one clear wound that appeared before the blood covered it again- a deep gouge extending for over an inch. The bullet appeared to have embedded itself in the carpet. By Chase's estimation, it had more than likely impacted the internal jugular. The blood flowed, it didn't pulse. The wounds were far enough away from the vertebrae that Chase knew a spinal injury was almost out of the question. But the damage to ligaments, peripheral nerves, and veins would be questionable until they got him into an OR. Chase shook his head, choosing to focus on the abdomen. An injury to the abdomen was equally serious. If the liver was punctured, if kidneys were lacerated, if the bowel spilled into the peritoneum, complications would ensue. And if the bullet had lodged somewhere, if it had bounced around… "I need to check for an exit wound."

Cameron nodded and held fast as Chase put his hands on House's bony hip and shoulder, rolling him onto his side and cutting the dark suit jacket up the back. He silently thanked House for snatching the scissors from the clinic for their office. Focused only the medical, Chase noted the lack of the blood on House's back. It made things easier for the moment, but more complicated in the end. No telling how much the bullet had bounced around- where it was lodged, where it had hit.

Chase grasped House's shoulder and hip to roll him back, his fingers inadvertently straying south to House's thigh. Feeling the wasted leg and the hard scarring underneath the denim, Chase's fingers immediately pulled back, repulsed, curling towards House's hip again. The front of House's jeans were soaked and the smell of urine seeped into the air and entwined itself with the lingering smell of gunpowder and blood. Cameron and Chase looked at each other, and then to Foreman, as two security guards and an EMT came through the glass doors. Security took over Foreman's position, and he joined his co-workers at House's side. Joined by the EMT, they worked on moving House to the gurney. As they lifted him, he began murmuring incoherently. The EMT dropped his prepped bag of saline between House's legs, forgoing fluids for speed, and the doctors helped him lift the gurney to it's standing position. As it was lifted, House flailed, his hand connecting with the EMT's stomach, who was already working to fasten the belts to keep him secure.

The ride from the diagnostics office to the elevator was hurried, but seemed interminable for those intimately involved. Cameron held tight to the pressure on her boss's neck while Chase kept the pressure on his stomach. Foreman pushed. The EMT pulled the gurney along, forcing a run from the three doctors following him. Time of the essence. Patient bleeding out. House seemed oblivious to everything, occasionally mumbling, eyes fluttering, occasionally blinking open, and the painful gasps made everyone cringe.

The blue cushion cradled House's pale face, enhanced by the red-coated towel and gloves pressed urgently to his neck. They'd forgone immobilization after seeing that the wound on his neck was just a gouge. Clear of the vertebrae. Blood seemed to smear everything- from Cameron's white coat, to Chase's gloves, Foreman's knuckles. Little smears here and there on House's jeans, the cushions, the bag of saline dropped to House's legs. Everything was contaminated.

Apart from his eyes, and an occasional twitch of his extremities, House didn't move. Normally, Gregory House was too immense for most of the staff to comprehend. Despite the limp, the inadvertent grimaces when he stepped just a little too hard, his reputation, mental acuity, and over-the-top methods made him seem larger than life. His physical height only served to exaggerate his immensity. Hearing of his reputation, they inexplicably expected him to be big; forced to meet him, he became even more intimidating. His bony physique complimented the harshness of his interactions. And everyone was forced to look up to him- both in stature and in knowledge.

But lying on a gurney, covered in blood and urine, he appeared as a limp marionette. His arms and legs, strapped down and lying motionless, barely fit and seemed too long for his narrow body. His jeans, soaked to mid thigh, clung to the bony details of him and caved ever so slightly over his right thigh. Normally, no one could see the difference. Stiff jeans normally concealed the indentation. But now they were damp and there was a noticeable difference in the size of his thighs. His shirt, now ripped apart and bloodied, displayed his ribs too prominently and Cameron couldn't help but notice that he had lost weight since she'd seen him stoned in the locker room six months prior.

Gregory House was no longer larger than life. He had suddenly and inexplicably become as small as the diabetic homeless woman waiting in a wheelchair outside the ER. Hardly anyone looked at her, but everyone was looking at him as he was rushed past. The staff members that had an occasion to look down at him were caught off guard and immediately a feeling of uneasiness settled upon them. If they'd hated Dr. House, looking down into the face of an unconscious and bleeding colleague made them feel unquestionably guilty. If they'd liked him (or at least respected him), their shock would be interminable.

Somehow, House's sharp shoulders had seemed to shrink and soften. The hair that normally stood on end, giving the appearance of the mad scientist, was slicked with sweat and plastered to his head. While they stared, his normally piercing eyes were closed and no witticism emanated from his tight and caustic mouth. Without them, he was just a man- a bleeding, unconscious, direly injured patient. The blood was shocking, but not near as shocking as looking _down_ at Dr. Gregory House.

Foreman nearly pushed the gurney through the other side of the elevator, the EMT pushing back just enough, jarring the cargo, as Chase pressed the button that would lead to the ER. As the doors closed, the echoing hospital sounds ceased and there was only the quiet "bing" as the elevator reached the subsequently lower floors. Heavy breathing mingled in between the doctors and the EMT.

Cameron's hands held tight to House's neck, watching him grow paler, sweatier, cooler, and felt the pulses that were proving his life, but killing him all the same. Chase's hands pressed into House's stomach, watching the movement underneath them. Ever shallower breaths, occasional hitches. And Foreman watched the lights on each of the floors as they flipped from one to the next. Cameron looked up for a moment and caught Chase's eyes, breathing hard, shocked. Why was this taking so long? Chase pursed his lips, shook his head slightly, and pressed harder on House's stomach.

The woman in the back corner, the daughter of a cancer patient, clutched her purse and the bag of books that her mother had already read, her mouth in a silent 'o.' She pressed further into the corner, her eyes frozen to the face on the gurney as it sweated, breathed, and gasped. And the blood, staunched by the doctors (three of them), which poured out anyway. Three doctors, an EMT, and going down instead of up. She wondered if the patient's attacker wasn't in the hospital somewhere. She would stay on the elevator afterwards and go to her mother's room, seeking comfort in her frail arms and ravaged breast. Wilson would pass them, hardly seeing them, as he walked from the oncology ward on the way to the diagnostics office to grab House for lunch.


	2. Hands: Bloody

**Thanks for the reviews, guys. :) **

_A gutter full of rain  
an empty picture frame  
a house out at the edges of the city  
never noticing the war  
til it's right there at your door  
and suddenly your hands are bloody  
_

_David Gray_

_Gutters Full of Rain_

Chapter 2 Hands: Bloody

The doors opened and the world opened to sound again. Alarms and telephones, a baby crying, running shoes. They burst through the doors and instinct took over for the three doctors. Foreman: "He was shot!" as nurses swooped in on them. "Twice," Cameron added. Chase piped in: "Once in the abdomen, once in the neck." House's eyes opened fully, the first time since it happened. "Hello?" He said it like he was picking up the phone, greeting his mother, like nothing was wrong.

Cameron, still moving with the gurney, fingers still pressed into her boss's neck, looked at him, making eye contact. She verbalized the only non-medical thought repeating in her head: "It's going to be okay, you're going to be okay." Was she reassuring herself or him? She'd said the same thing to the first patient she'd ever seen come into the ER while she was working and her resident had given her hell. It was a basis for lawsuits and false hopes, but she said it anyway and was glad when House responded with a hoarse: "You don't know that." He was thinking again, coherent.

Ketamine was the only coherent thought for House. He could say it. He could get the point across. It could work. Passively, he realized that he'd been shot, but the main focus was that he knew he'd need some type of surgery judging by the way he felt. Dizzy, blurry, his head was ten feet below the surface. He'd need anesthesia. He wasn't sure exactly where the bullet (bullets?) had hit. He remembered falling against the white board, hitting the carpet and lying on his back. He hadn't felt any pain, just impact and fleeting images. He remembered seeing the man's face, getting fuzzier in each passing second. And then the hallucination. Days in the course of minutes where his mind had taken the bits of information coming into his senses and transformed them into a web, mixing reality with fear and desire. It was gone now and the only thing House saw was the too bright fluorescent lights beating down on him and the panicked blurs of faces above.

It could bring him back. He could have meaning again- something beyond putting pieces of the puzzle together. Something beyond his screwed up relationships and his leg. He'd read about the Ketamine, researched it, watched it, decided it wouldn't work. Nothing would work. But wasn't it worth the try? He'd become so tied into the puzzles and the medicine, substituting real life emotion with his soaps and a video game. It was easier that way. It was easier to see everyone react to each other, to be separate from it, detached. Avoiding the interpersonal meant avoiding explanations, feelings, pain. But even attempts at escaping were beginning to be hard to come by. His pain had escalated to unbearable levels, taking with it most of his rationality and all of his attempts at pleasure. He hadn't been on his bike in six weeks. He couldn't sit still enough to watch his soaps or play the video games. Cases were distractions, but more often he found his team providing the answers. He wasn't needed.

So he'd resorted to the morphine, but it was still no way to live. If anything, the morphine was a bore. He'd take it at night if he couldn't sleep and on the weekends to get through. The morphine made him queasy, but he'd only thrown up once, as he'd gotten up in the middle of the night to relieve his bladder and the dizziness had put his head in the toilet instead. He'd plan his mealtimes to avoid the situation in the future- eating breakfast and lunch, but foregoing dinner in anticipation of the drug's effects. He might've tried anti-emetics, but by the time he got home to the morphine, he was too tired and in too much pain to care if he lost his lunch. Ketamine had the potential to alleviate the pain. Alleviating the pain meant he could think again, function again, play again- even if it couldn't take back the gaping chasm in his leg.

Time was running short. House felt his breath hitch and a lancet of pain shot down his side. The world swam for a moment. . Voices muffled as if his head was underwater. His eyes shifted, looking for someone he knew. The spin stopped for a moment and his eyes rested on the dark hair that he thought may be Cameron. She would pass the message: "Tell Cuddy… I want Ketamine." Done. Said. No more time for an explanation. His head swam again, and he knew it was his blood pressure dropping further. But the task was complete and he didn't fight the curling fingers of unconsciousness.

Cameron, stunned and confused, was pushed back, away from House, by a nurse taking her by the shoulders. Cameron's gloves were bloody and she held them up, away from her white lab coat, nervous and afraid as she settled by Foreman's side. She looked to him, silently, breathing hard. Ketamine?

As doctors, both Cameron and Foreman were familiar with Ketamine- the hallucinogenic drug sometimes used on animals and on humans when an anesthesiologist wasn't available for an emergency surgery. It was easy and safe to administer compared to many drugs, but its use was often controversial and dissuaded in major surgeries for adults Foreman, in particular, was aware that Ketamine wouldn't relax the muscles that the surgeons needed in order to do an abdominal surgery. The doses that House would need would far exceed safety, and potentially lead to tachycardia and respiratory suppression. Foreman shook his head, as if to re-evaluate what he had heard. But nothing more was forthcoming. House had said he wanted Ketamine.

Chase, too, had been pushed back out of the way and now stood next to Foreman. He hadn't caught what House had said, but he saw that the reactions on his colleague's faces were confused by it. Chase was confused by the whole situation. He'd reacted with the practiced ease of the intensivist he'd been trained to become, but once he was moved out of the way, the situation hit his conscience as if he'd been shot himself. His stomach was suddenly flipping and he swallowed the lump in his throat as he watched the emergency doctors and nurses take over their boss's care.

They lifted House's limp arms and legs and transferred him, now unconscious, to the emergency room bed. A nurse ran scissors up both legs of his pants, exposing him to the air. His shirt was cut off completely and he was naked. . The doctors were already accessing the wounds, one probing at the abdomen, while another alternating between peering at and holding the wound at his neck. Nurses reached for a multitude of tubes. Airway: A doctor was practically shoving the ET tube down House's throat, leaving it protruding for a moment before a bag was placed over the end and air was being forced down House's lungs, past the expanding hematoma in his neck.

Another nurse was starting a line in the crook of House's elbow. Blood would temporarily be replaced with fluids until the type and crossmatch could be completed or records could be pulled. The nurse paused for a moment when she turned his elbow over. It was marked by punctures, a few of them bruised. Her look spanned up to the attending, who nodded and grimaced while holding the portable ultrasound to House's abdomen. House was known to be radical; suspected of being a drug abuser. This was confirmation.

At the doctor's instruction, another nurse prepared a Foley and started it, watching, expectant, as it first filled with yellow, and then red. The nurse moved to House's head and pulled another tube, an NG, running it up through House's nose and into his stomach. It, too, filled with blood. For a moment, things seemed out of control as blood leaked onto the sheets. White sheets, red blood, nurses in purple scrubs.

Cuddy suddenly appeared by Foreman's side, hands on her hips. "What the hell happened?" Exasperated. Chase, Foreman, and Cameron remained silent, still watching as the ER worked in a flurry of activity. They could barely see House now, but still they stood- transfixed. Cuddy stalked over to the ER team, peering in between the movement and staying out of the way, seeing her best diagnostician bleeding, unconscious, blood pressure dangerously low.

She'd gotten the news from a security officer that she knew only as Rich, who had run into her office with the simple statement of "It's under control. We've got him." She'd stood immediately, the paperwork beneath her forgotten.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"It was Dr. House," he'd said. "The guy shot him- in his office. It's under control. We've called the police."

"Where's Dr. House?"

"Triage."

"Was anyone else hurt?"

Rich shook his head as Cuddy rushed past him and walked with a professional, but concerned urgency to the ER. Once there, she'd taken in the sight, pushing back her emotion and focusing on the activities before her. Doctors and nurses had swarmed in on the newest patient, monitors beeped, doctors yelled. She didn't hear House complaining, which meant that he was unconscious. She made out House's shoes lying on top of his clothes next to the bed. His bare feet and a glimpse of his torso were the only skin she could make out- the rest was red and white. Despite all her arguments with him, despite all of his stares and comments, they shared a common history and a screwed up respect for each other. She may have hired him out of guilt over his leg, but never wanted or expected to see him this way again.

Knowing the ER had control, and needing to be in control herself, she went back to the three fellows, who were still staring. "You three, in my office, right now." The commander in chief, dean of medicine, used her tone and the three doctors were shaken out of their shock and followed Cuddy to her office.

Cameron and Chase peeled the bloody gloves off their hands, throwing them in the biohazard bag at the exit of the ER. Three glass doors later, Cuddy strutted behind her desk, still standing, sighing as she watched the three doctors following her enter, faces drawn to the floor. Cameron's arms were crossed and her fingers tapped on her biceps. "Sit," Cuddy commanded. Cameron and Chase moved to the couch, while Foreman went to the chair in front of Cuddy's desk. "Speak." Cuddy commanded. "What happened?"

Silence claimed the room for a moment. Chase looked down, touching his bruised knees where they had hit the ground next to House, rubbing the tips of his fingers over them. He could feel the knots forming. He thought of Cuddy's question, frowned, couldn't think of an answer.

Cameron crossed her legs, put a hand to her mouth, removed it when she thought she smelled the lingering metallic blood and remembered where it had been. All of them had washed their hands on the way to Cuddy's office, scrubbing hastily to remove the blood from underneath their fingernails and from the creases in their skin. But Cameron could skill feel it. She bit her bottom lip, sighed, and sat up straighter. Why was her throat so dry?

Foreman spoke. He related the story seamlessly. He had been closest, had seen and attacked the attacker, and was distanced enough from House to have the least amount of blood splatters.

Street smarts, House had said. Foreman was there because of his street smarts.

As he finished, two police officers knocked on Cuddy's door. The perpetrator was being treated, the officers would need interviews and statements. Cuddy nodded and allowed the team to follow the officers. Exiting, Cameron turned, suddenly remembering. "Ketamine," she said, suddenly- the first words she had uttered since the ER. Cuddy looked up.

"What?"

"Ketamine," Cameron said. "He said…" she paused as she saw Foreman shake his head, looking to her, telling her silently- it was just another crazy House idea. "House," she decided. House had told her to pass the message and she'd do it. It was his life. "…he said to tell you he wanted Ketamine."

Cuddy sighed and nodded, watching the team leave. It was left to her now. Ketamine. Cuddy ran the sound of the word over a whispered breath. Ketamine.

He'd never brought it up in front of her, but she knew he'd been interested. Two years before when he'd been going through another episode of breakthrough pain- he'd called into work for a week, claiming he had the flu, before she'd hassled Wilson (the informant) to bring him in for an MRI, which in the end had been a moot point. No further damage, no regeneration, no healing, and no other reason for the pain. House had spent the week clenched on his couch with his laptop and his Vicodin, reading journal after journal on pain management before stumbling across one in German about the Ketamine. It had just been attempted with relatively good results. Two patients, limited samples, unknown long-term effects. Both patients had come out with significantly reduced pain. The medical and scientific community was a hard sale, however. With the extraordinarily drastic methods implied by inducing a five-day coma (practically killing the patient), sample size and control methods were inherently limited. There would be no double blind studies with induced comas and sponsors were hesitant to associate themselves with what they considered to be radical medicine. And insurance coverage- forget it. Each participant had to round up enough money for the procedure and ICU care- which usually amounted to over $30,000.

Wilson had found House crashed out in front of the printed article, having taken one too many Vicodin and exhausted from the pain. Wilson handed the article to Cuddy after he'd managed to get the slightly stoned House into the MRI. Cuddy read it, researched the experiment, but kept her knowledge to herself. Cuddy knew that House would've kept close tabs on follow-up studies. To base his treatment off of one study was ludicrous- especially considering the risky and expensive nature of the treatment. Cudd also kept up with the research, hoping that this could provide an answer to her mistake.

To Stacy's mistake. When results became mixed and patients began having to have more and more treatments- every six months, four, two… until they were in a Ketamine induced dissociative state half their lives just for a respite, suffering random hallucinations, and decreasing cognitive functioning. House didn't talk about them. Cuddy didn't mention that she'd kept up with them or even that she knew.

No less than four witnesses in the ER had heard House direct his wishes to Cuddy. It automtically put the decision into her hands. As his doctor, she would have advised against it. But she'd known him for years. She was more than just his doctor. If he wanted Ketamine, something had changed. She must've missed it. Caught up in her own personal issues and her attempts at a normal life, she'd missed House's symptoms. The pacing, the increasing irritability. He was willing to risk his mind for a respite. It was a big jump for a man who only had his mind. Even with the Ketamine, he would still be limited. Ketamine couldn't regrow a muscle. Wouldn't allow him to beat Wilson in a footrace.

Wilson.

Cuddy picked up the phone, automatically dialing Wilson's pager, inserting 911.


	3. Thin Ice

_On this plate you're handed  
You'll find yourself running the gauntlet  
Of all these double standards  
It's very thin ice over which you're skating  
And after this black winter, the thaw  
What are you?_

_What Are You?_

_David Gray_

Chapter 3: Thin Ice

Wilson had been heading towards House's office, having just passed the cancer stricken woman and her daughter, when the page came through. He'd stared at the number and looked down the hallway, confused for a moment. Security was coming out of House's office, holding a gray-suited man between them, bleeding from his mouth and forehead. The man was silent as the guards led him, handcuffed, stumbling, towards the elevator. Wilson walked faster and was stopped by a third security officer standing at the door. A horrible sickening bubble had formed in the vicinity of his stomach.

"You can't go in there."

Wilson backed off, standing with his hands on his hips. The bubble was expanding to his throat. "What happened? I need…"

He looked over the shoulder of the guard, seeing a glistening red stain on the floor near the white board.

The guard put a hand on his shoulder. "One of the doctors was assaulted."

"Which one? Where…?" his question trailed and he held tighter to the pager that he hadn't had the opportunity to put back in its holster. There was only one answer for this and it couldn't be answered by the guard standing in front of him.

Seeing that he would never get through to the office, which seemed empty save for security guards anyway, Wilson started the run downstairs. He took the stairs two at a time, nearly stumbling on the second floor, catching his balance against the railing before continuing down. He pushed through the doors to the ER, and stood, watching the melee in front of him. It was the ER. It was always traumatic. But this was House. Wilson watched from the doorway as the nurses and doctors began unhooking bags and tossing equipment between House's legs. Someone had unlocked the wheels on the gurney and it was turned, heading in Wilson's direction. A trauma doctor looked to the rest of his team and Wilson heard the standard exit strategy of any ER doctor. "Let's get him to the OR."

Wilson had run next to the gurney as it was being pushed into the elevator, taking in House's condition, asking the doctor questions as they moved. His hand went to House's arm, squeezed, and received no response. Despite his questioning, Wilson couldn't find out much and there hadn't been room for him in the elevator. The trauma doctor was terse in his response, only indicating that House's jugular appeared to have been severed and that House would need a laporatomy to assess and repair the damage to his abdomen. Wilson ran a hand through his own sweat slicked hair and turned back towards Cuddy's office, half running.

When Cuddy saw Wilson burst through the office doors, she sighed and sat down, putting her hands in her face before relating what she knew of the events to him. He was incensed over the situation, disbelieving. When Cuddy ended the recount with the Ketamine request, he stopped pacing, sat, and breathed, his hands clutching first his knees, then his neck. This was a nightmare and he couldn't wake up.

"What do we do?" Cuddy asked, afterwards.

Wilson sat still, rubbing a hand behind his neck. "We should get an MRI."

"He wants the Ketamine."

Wilson nodded. "When he's out of the woods. He needs something else besides Ketamine for the abdominal surgery."

When. "If" hung in the air for a moment.

Cuddy spoke again. "I totally missed it. He was coming to work, he did his clinic hours..."

"I caught him with Ingrid last week," Wilson related. "Masseuse," he added when Cuddy's eyebrows lifted. "I thought it was… " He trailed off, shaking his head, remembering the incident. Remembering the ensuing conversation a few days later and not wanting to go there.

Cuddy sighed, putting the reports she was signing off on into her top drawer and standing. She ran a hand over her skirt, flattening it. "Come on."

Wilson followed Cuddy from her office to the parking lot, not saying a word until she motioned at him to get in her car. "We're leaving? House is in surgery."

"And there's nothing we can do until he's out. We probably have an hour until the media shows and wants answers. This won't take long. Got your keys?"

Wilson nodded, suddenly understanding and not wanting to go. Reluctantly, he opened the passenger side door and sat, pursing his lips and sighing.

Cuddy wanted answers to House's request. Wilson was now caught between a rock and a hard place. He had answers Cuddy didn't have. Giving the answers forthright would betray House. On the other hand, his answers were limited to a one-time visit one week prior. He didn't know the extent of House's morphine use. And he was relatively sure that House had the capacity to clean up- to make sure things were put away. Maybe Cuddy wouldn't see it. Maybe Wilson could be deft enough if there was something out. On the other hand…. Wilson's mind drifted. Better that she should find it herself.

A visit to House's home, both Cuddy and Wilson knew, could be all-telling. A year after House's infarction, Stacy had left him. It'd been piecemeal. Stacy would take one thing after another from the apartment, saying it was in the way, that she wanted something new instead. Most of the furniture was House's anyway. Stacy had put hers into storage and now she was beginning to put everything else there too- in preparation for a bigger move. Wilson didn't know anything about it until he picked up House for work one day and House hadn't been quite ready. He'd stepped into the apartment, immediately noting the difference, and asked House where everything had gone. All the domesticated decorations, a few of the paintings, the quilt that had been on the back of the leather couch. It was all gone and the place had been modified from mildly domesticated to bachelor pad. "House," he'd said. "The place looks different."

"Stacy," House had muttered, sitting on the couch as he pulled on his sneakers. "Is trying to redecorate… or something." He'd frowned, looking around again. "I miss that quilt though. Told her to leave it, but she said she was getting something new."

Wilson had nodded, silently thinking back to all the half arguments he'd overheard during the course of the year. The fact that House was no longer beaming around her. The fact that most of the time Stacy was around, House was berating her, making a guilt trip out of every look or comment. Stacy never said anything about it and never gave him anything back for the remarks. She just sighed and pursed her lips while House marched all over her. It was so uncharacteristic in a relationship that seemed to thrive on witty comebacks. And the lack of her presence seen in the apartment had given Wilson the inclination that this would all end very soon. But House, evidently, had no idea. Seemed confused, in fact. In hindsight, Wilson reasoned that it was probably denial.

Wilson had gone directly to Stacy after he'd seen the status of the apartment, confronting her, challenging her. She'd only nodded and told him that she'd be out by the following month. She'd already signed a lease on an apartment a hundred miles north. She'd already taken another job and given her notice to the administration. "Why?" he'd asked, pleading. She'd only frowned, and responded. "He's pushed me out. It's not the same anymore."

Wilson watched the traffic as they drove. It was mid morning, traffic was light and the roads were clear and dry. He foot tapped nervously on the floorboards until Cuddy stared at him at a stoplight and he'd stopped, self-conscious. He looked over at her half a dozen times, intending to say something, but not finding the words.

Wilson knew what they would find. The only uncertainty was the extent of the problem. How far had House gone? Would Cuddy be surprised? She broke into his thoughts.

"Is there anything that's been bothering him? Anything at all?"

Wilson shook his head. "He's… been a bit detached. He's been in a lot of pain. I thought it was because of Crandall."

"The guy he knew- with the sick daughter?"

"He wanted to run a paternity test. I thought he'd run it and hadn't liked the results. He had some guilt over that guy though. Was trying to make it up to him."

"What did House do? Put ex-lax in his coffee?" Cuddy smirked.

Wilson let a half grin come to his lips. "Slept with a girlfriend… or something."

They were silent for a moment, Cuddy chewing on her lip, thinking of telling Wilson her own predicament and the fact that House had been helping her. She'd need someone else now. Wilson seemed a likely choice, especially considering that she'd nearly asked him to donate. She still might. "Is there anything else?" she asked. "Anything else that's been bothering him?" God, she hoped that he had a physical issue. That it wasn't conversional. That _she_ hadn't brought this on with her near admission to him. Wilson shook his head, suddenly curious. Before he had a chance to become more curious, Cuddy started speaking again.

"A few weeks ago," she sighed. "I started hormone therapy." Wilson frowned. "I'm trying to get pregnant."

"But you…"

"House found out so I asked him to help me look for a donor. And he's been helping me with the injections."

Wilson smirked, suddenly understanding Cuddy's concerned brow. "You think _that _has him twisted up?" Wilson paused, looking over at Cuddy, who remained focused on the road as she took the turn down House's street. "No," he said. "It's not that."

The car stopped in front of the apartment and Wilson got out, fumbling for the keys and in particular, House's key, which he'd held onto. House hadn't asked for it back and Wilson wasn't going to volunteer. Cuddy and Wilson looked at each other as the key turned and the door opened. The sight before them was really no surprise. It wasn't as bad as they'd feared. But worse than normal, worse than the week before when Wilson had made an impromptu visit.

Books littered the floor around the bookcase. Obviously fallen from the top shelf, where House had evidently climbed a ladder to reach for something. There were beer bottles on the coffee table and a half empty bottle of scotch. An empty prescription bottle. Two empty glasses and a metal box, its lid half open with rubber tubing preventing its full closure. The lamp in the corner was on. The place smelt like burnt toast. A stack of small plates littered with crumbs was the only evidence that House ever ate anything. Wilson avoided the coffee table, instead looking towards the bookcase, the desk, and House's laptop. Stacks of articles sat next to it, all on chronic pain. He hadn't noticed before. He'd been preoccupied. Cuddy went to the table and opened the box. Two vials of morphine, one nearly empty. And one apparently used syringe.

"He's been using Morphine," Cuddy said to Wilson, a bewildered, yet disappointed phrase, said more in a sigh than in a statement. Wilson looked over at the trashcan, empty save for the butt of a cigar and a few balled up kleenexes, and continued to look through the stack of articles without replying, without giving away that he'd known for a week. "Where'd he get this stuff?" Cuddy was still picking through the box, but the only other drug she found was an anti-emetic. House was nothing if not prepared. "Did you know he was using?"

Wilson shrugged, trying not to be surprised at House's apparent disintegration. He didn't want to lie. He didn't want her to know. "I… yeah. I knew."

"He can't do this," Cuddy said, serious. "As his boss, if he's using Morphine- illegally- while at work, he is a serious liability." Though guilt hung over her head, rampant and unforgiving, Cuddy still felt that her job was the first priority. Sure, she should've noticed. They should've done more to prevent House from stepping on the ledge. They should've gone after him after he'd initially admitted he was addicted to the Vicodin and she should've never agreed (even if it was a lie) to give him Morphine. But it had been House, she reasoned. He put out a lot of bullshit and she'd gotten used to taking it as just that- bullshit. Now it had turned to another, more grievous level. Illegal possession of Morphine was punishable by three to five in a New Jersey prison, not to mention the loss of a medical license. And if something happened and patients learned about House's drug use, a lawsuit could cost the hospital millions. If her job was a choice between protecting the hospital and protecting House, she had to protect the hospital. House was one man. The hospital was hundreds.

"He's a liability if he's not on _some_ type of pain management. This is why he has his team."

Cuddy shut the box and picked it up. "Find anything interesting over there?"

Wilson shook his head. "Same old stuff."

He moved to the kitchen and to Steve's cage. The rat was running unabashedly and unknowingly on his exercise wheel, stopping when Wilson opened the cage to draw out his food dish. He sniffed the air, knowing from the hundred days before that food would be on its way soon, and he dismounted the wheel, standing on his hind legs. Wilson opened the cabinet drawer underneath the cage, drawing out the pellets and pouring them into the bowl, replacing it, watching the rat sniff the food and begin to nibble.

Steve's cage would be okay for another few days and his water level looked good. Wilson wondered if he should plan to drop by or if he should just bring the rat to his place. He decided on the former: the hassle of moving everything was an annoyance with which he didn't feel like dealing. Besides, someone would need to collect the newspaper, the mail, make sure the place didn't burn down. Thinking ahead of the game, Wilson unplugged the toaster and the coffee maker, noting the unclean condition of both and suddenly thinking of all the other things that could become "unclean" in the course of a few weeks if left to their own devices.

He opened the refrigerator and sighed. It was more evidence that House was faltering. The beer, at least, would be okay for a few weeks. And ketchup lasted for years. The loaf of bread in the freezer was gathering freezer burn, but it too would survive. Checking around some more led Wilson to believe that House had pretty much stopped eating anything but toast and beer. He was even out of Ramen. The trash seemed to support this as it was completely devoid of take-out boxes.

Sighing, cursing himself, he left it and went towards the bedroom, flipping on lights. The bed was unmade, the sheets half off. A used syringe sat next to a half full glass of water and a stack of books ranging from infectious disease to Arabic. Wilson swiped the syringe, capped it, and put it back on the desk for a moment. Returning to the bedroom, he noticed again, the slightest state of disarray. The clothes shucked on the ground, near the closet. A dresser drawer open. House never had the cleanest apartment, but neither did he flaunt clutter and disorder. Most often, he preferred to shove things out of sight- putting dirty dishes in the oven, useless boxes piled in the closet underneath layers of jackets that he hadn't worn in five years. Wilson instinctively picked the clothes up, tossed them into an overflowing hamper of other dirty clothes. The syringe on the desk was evidence that he was out of hand. Evidence of his reason why he was giving into a radical treatment. But House was still cognizant of his actions. He wouldn't have just shot up twice. There had to be other syringes and House wasn't an idiot.

"We should get rid of this stuff," Wilson said of the Morphine, speaking louder so Cuddy could hear him. He imagined her poking through every nook and cranny in the apartment, scouring it for more evidence of drug abuse.

In reality, Cuddy was much more subtle. She was sorting through House's mail and grimaced at Wilson's comment. Covering up evidence.

Wilson dug through House's dresser, the cigar boxes on the desk, his closets. There were one or two empty Vicodin bottles, old t-shirts, golf balls, photos of better days stuffed in a bottom drawer. After shifting through the closet and not finding what he was looking for, Wilson happened upon a duffle and took it out. He packed a few of House's things- some t-shirts, sweatpants, boxers. The bathroom was next. No drugs there either. No syringes in the trashcan there. A bottle of aspirin for the heart attack House swore he would have one day was the only thing besides Tums in the medicine cabinet. Peeking into the cabinet beneath the sink, Wilson found what he was looking for. It was small, red, and the biohazard label stood out on a black label. Picking up the box, he was more pleased than dismayed. At max, Wilson guessed there were six needles in there, making eight total. He'd been using maybe one a day. There was no evidence of any other containers, but Wilson didn't discount the notion that House had had more of them disposed.

Wilson grabbed the container and put it on the bathroom counter as he packed House's toothbrush, paste, deodorant, and electric razor. When he emerged, Cuddy was raking through the articles. She picked them up when she saw Wilson emerge, threw them on top of the metal box, picking them both up. The box was heavy in her hands. Cuddy cradled it gently as to avoid the sound of glass rattling on metal, eying the red container in Wilson's hands, but saying nothing. Wilson gathered the trash from both the kitchen and the can next to the desk, and he took it with him as he and Cuddy left.

The ride back to the hospital was marred by silence, the box and the container silent passengers in Wilson's lap. "How many?" she finally sighed, two minutes from the hospital's drive.

"Five or six?"

Cuddy took both boxes from his hands the moment they entered the hospital. He remained silent as he gave them over and followed her to her office.

Chase was tapping a foot, arms crossed in front of the office when they got back. Cuddy was annoyed by his disbelieving look as she and Wilson apparently returned from lunch. She listened anyway as he related House's condition.

The neck wound, while appearing grievous, was less serious than they'd initially thought. The surgeon had managed to close the wound to the jugular vein by resecting and joining the damaged ends. As Chase spoke, the surgical team was stitching up House's right kidney and resecting the bowel. The bullets had done considerable damage within his abdominal cavity and he'd lost more than enough blood to kill him. Wilson paced behind Chase as he narrated, occasionally stopping and standing with his arms crossed. The metal box was on Cuddy's desk, closed, locked. Wilson kept staring at it and after Chase left, Cuddy shoved it into her bottom drawer. Wilson, pinching his lip between chewed nails, sighed and left.


	4. Q&A

**I'm posting this section now in the expectation that I otherwise won't be able to get to it until very late tomorrow. The next 3 sections are relatively short, but I've decided to post them all at once in an effort to get this thing entirely posted before I leave town for vacation. (yippeeeee!!!!) Hope you like. **

_Questions, lighted questions  
Burnin' holes into my head  
Hanging like shadows o'er the sun  
Staring out like the eyes of the dead  
And sometimes my soul flickers  
As the wind of change blows cold  
Over the mire of repetition  
Down the corridors of rigmarole  
What I say, what I think  
What I put down in ink  
I'm only tryin' to find a way to understand. And I mean no harm_

_David Gray_

_Let the Truth Sting_

Chapter 4: Q&A

Chase's keys were in his leather brief that hung over the back of one of the conference room chairs. He looked at them through the glass. He wanted to go home- but had refused the police officer's offer to drop him there, instead going back to the hospital in search of his brief.

He'd come in that morning, steered by routine, hung the brief on the back of the chair, gone to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup from the pot that Cameron had made. He'd sat at the same chair that his brief hung on, turning and pulling out an oncology text. He flipped through it for a while, skimming for treatment regimes for appendix cancer- he'd been in the clinic the day before when a patient came in experiencing irritation over a recent incision. She'd been to see some friends in New Jersey, she'd said, in case she didn't see them again.

"Appendix cancer," she'd said, as he looked at the irritation, seeing that she'd probably just worn the wrong pants and they'd rubbed the wrong way.

He'd frowned then, seeing her outlook, and after he sent her home, he brought out the only oncology book he had and stuck it in his brief for the morning reading.

House had come in not much later, earlier than normal in fact. Chase found out he'd been in the clinic since nine, which was unusual, but not without precedent. He called them all in for their newest patient and they'd all been disgusted with his crass remarks. Foreman, having pulled a night shift, scoffed and made to leave. And then Jack Moriarty had walked into their office and shot their boss.

The event itself had been shocking. Once everything was moving again, it was pure training. And afterwards, when the police officers had driven them to the station to make their statements, he'd felt like a prisoner. He and Foreman had let Cameron sit in the front of the squad car and they had taken the backseat, separated from the driver and their colleague by a thick barrier. The officer had had to let them out of car himself- the doors didn't open from the inside.

Chase had never been in trouble- not real trouble- when he was a kid. So when the officer led him, separately, to a detective's desk, he'd been apprehensive. The apparent nervousness irritated the detective, who'd had a fight with his wife earlier that morning, and Chase had been at the receiving end of a cop's bad day.

"So what happened?" The detective had asked, putting a cup of coffee down in front of Chase.

"I dunno," Chase replied. "It was fast- really fast." Chase fell silent. How could he explain it?

The cop, Detective O'Brian, had sighed heavily, tapping his pen on the notepad in front of him, his eyes squeezed tight. He motioned with his hands, impatient and urging, "And…"

Chase shrugged. "He just came into the office, asked which one of us was House."

"House being…"

"My boss." Chase picked up on the cop's obvious boredom and anger began its slow swell into his chest.

"What time did this occur?"

Chase shrugged, frowning. Time. Right. He had to cooperate. The guy had shot House. "It was just past eleven."

"Where were you at this time?"

"I was at the conference table with Cameron and Foreman." Easy question. Location. "House was at the board- he was writing. His back was to the door."

"What else did this guy say?"

"He asked which one of us was House."

"What happened next?"

Chase leaned back. Would House's sarcastic remarks be taken as a defense against a shooter? Chase considered the issue, considered Cameron and the fact that she was with another detective at the very same moment, and responded. "House turned around, told him to leave thank you gifts at the front desk."

"And then…"

"The guy pulled out a gun and shot him."

"Where?"

"In the gut," Chase responded, his hand moving to a similar location that House had been shot, rubbing a spot there.

"Nothing else happened in between? Did he threaten anyone before he acted?"

Chase shook his head. "No- he pointed the gun at us, told us not to move and then he…" Chase paused and the detective breathed again, heavily, waiting. "He pointed the gun back at House."

"Who was this guy?" Another shrug. "Any reason for him to come after Dr. House?" The detective's eyes squinted again and he put a question mark in his notes as Chase's face drew a blank. He outlined the question mark a few times, the ink making it darker and more noticeable. "No idea?"

"Never seen him," Chase had responded.

"What happened next?"

"Dr. Foreman was closest and he… jumped. They fought. The gun went off the second time. The guy, he was so close to House that… it hit House in the neck. Foreman got the gun away. I picked it up. Once everything was under control-"

"Yeah yeah… Did the shooter say anything else? Did he say anything before or after shooting Dr. House the second time?"

Chase had had to think hard. His heart had been beating so hard in his chest by then that he'd barely been able to hear anything. "Uh," Chase started. "Yeah, he said…" Chase paused, thinking.

The detective was used to victims being in shock and normally he was a compassionate guy, or at least a good impostor. But Chase was a doctor- high brow- and a foreigner at that. Couldn't string two sentences together. Weren't doctors trained to deal with emergencies? You'd think that they could relate a story, for god's sake. That and his crazy wife. Jesus- he wished that he hadn't gone to softball game the night before. Whole situation could've been avoided. The detective tapped his pen some more, then pushed back in his chair and swung his arms behind his head. The detective's posture made Chase angry and his shock and emotion burst forth:

"If you don't have _time_ to do your job, then you can get the story from the others. They were there, too. Better yet- get it from House- if he wakes up."

"Whoa, whoa," O'Brian calmed, putting his hands back on his desk, pen back to the notepad. "Relax, kid. We need your statement- along with the others- so we can put this guy away." O'Brian sighed, trying to focus on getting Chase's statement again. "Now what else did he say?"

"I couldn't hear him. Something about hurting him- House."

"And that's it?"

"That's it."

Chase peered at his leather brief, the book he'd been reading was sitting on the table, through the glass. Two forensic technicians were measuring the distance from the table to the blood stain, photographing, drawing.

There was a presence behind him and he turned, coming to face Wilson.

"How is he?" Chase asked, glancing behind him before turning back to the glass windows in front of him. One arm rested in the crook of the other elbow, a hand at his mouth, biting the skin on his thumb.

"Holding his own," Wilson responded. "Surgery went well. He'll be sore for a while."

Chase nodded, then questioned, moving his hand to cross his arms. "Ketamine?"

"No," Wilson responded. "Not yet." He sighed and nodded at the technicians. "How long have they been in there?"

"About an hour." Chase looked at his watch.

"You should go home."

"Can't," Chase sighed. "Keys," he nodded towards the conference table and the brief, hanging on the back of the chair.

Wilson's head tilted back, understanding. His mouth twisted. "I could…"

Chase shook his head. "I'll wait."

"Listen," Wilson started. "What you guys did…"

Chase was already nodding, accepting Wilson's thank you, congratulations, or whatever positive commentary he was trying to bestow on their "heroic" actions. He hadn't been a hero. He'd barely reacted to the incident. Was barely able to speak about it. Wilson's words hung for a moment and Chase realized he'd stopped talking. "Yeah," he murmured, quiet.

Wilson's mouth twisted again and he stood on his toes for a moment, rocked back then blew out a breath.

"I need to get back."

"Yeah."

Chase didn't turn as Wilson walked away. His gaze was fixed to the conference room: the blood on the floor, the whiteboard- askew, the cane beside it, Foreman's briefcase. Chase's eyes returned to his leather brief on the back of the chair. He wondered if blood spatters could travel that far.


	5. Mute

_Feel the touch of grief  
You stand in disbelief  
Can steal the earth from right beneath you  
And falling in so far  
They know just where you are  
Yeah but there ain't no way to reach you  
_

_David Gray_

_Freedom_

Chapter 5: Mute

Cameron crossed her arms on the desk across from Detective Cynthia Jones. Jones had offered her a cup of tea, which sat cooling in front of Cameron's arms. Cameron's eyes, red-streaked, lifted to the ceiling, tried to contain the emotion they wanted to leak. Jones pushed the box of tissues closer to the interviewee, relaxed and sympathetic.

"I'm sorry," Cameron sighed, taking a breath. "It's just…"

"It's a traumatic event. You have nothing to be sorry about."

"He's an ass," she stated into the table. "He treats everyone like crap."

The detective crossed her legs, sat straighter in her chair. It wasn't something that she particularly liked to hear coming from a prosecutor's witness. But she maintained her silence and listened. Given Cameron's eyes, she realized that there was probably more to the story. If Cameron really hated Dr. House, she'd have her statement down in five minutes. They'd already been there for ten.

"He's the best doctor I've ever known." Cameron sighed, sipped her tea. "He's focused, brilliant… intense…."

The detective's eyes narrowed for a half second and her chin tilted to the left, beginning to think that there was something more to this subordinate's relationship with the doctor who had been shot. She looked down at the ad-hoc file again. Forty-six year old doctor, head of a department, and she had a "fellow" in front of her- obviously young. Cameron didn't see the movement and continued. The detective began to take notes.

"We treated this guy's wife- a year ago? A year and a half? His wife had had an aneurysm- in her brain. We thought, at first, that it had to be an infection, an illness. But it wasn't in the end. She went home- healthy. But…"

"So why did this guy shoot Dr. House?"

"House- he's confrontational. He doesn't care if he's right or wrong- he…" Cameron paused. "He confronts people with information he thinks is true and watches their reactions. If he's right… he's usually right, actually." Cameron's hand lifted, went back to the desk, resigned.

"So he confronted Moriarty."

"Moriarty had had an affair with another woman. House was convinced that it was an STD that caused the aneurysm. It wasn't. Moriarty didn't have an STD. Neither did his wife. The aneurysm was a fluke."

"But why did Moriarty hate House so much?"

Cameron's eyes lifted to the ceiling again, a hint of a laugh emanated from her lips. "House told her… so she knew her husband cheated."

"And?"

Cameron shrugged. "I guess she left him."

"Did Dr. House do anything to provoke the attack?"

"He lives to provoke," she scoffed. "He's… bitter."

"Why?" The detective probed.

Cameron frowned, taking her tea again, sipping it. "It's just that he's…." she paused, searching for a word. "It's difficult for him… his disability…" she trailed.

"Yeah," the detective murmured, shaking her head. So he was a bitter old guy. He lived to provoke. Jones figured that Dr. House provoked a lot of people in his time- so why did this guy take revenge? Was it something in particular that House did or was the guy an anomoly? "Listen," she said, moving the conversation forward. "Did Dr. House ever threaten Moriarty?"

"No. House forgets patients as soon as they're cured."

"How about the other way around- did Moriarty in any way threaten Dr. House? Prior to the incident, I mean."

Cameron shook her head. "I… answer Dr. House's mail. So nothing came that way. He just showed up."

The detective nodded again. "And it was the first you'd seen of him since originally treating his wife?"

"Yeah. Out of the blue."

"Did he make demands?"

Cameron shook her head. "No. He asked which one of us was House. And then once he figured it out, he fired."

"What.. exactly… is your relationship to Dr. House?" The question was blatant and intended to shock. Jones realized that even though the relationship (whatever it was) was probably insignificant, all the bases had to be covered. Sometimes, a single question could open a new avenue. For instance, Jones thought in a half second, Huttman and Cameron had collaborated- the angry ex revenge plot. Jones doubted it, but every avenue needed to be covered.

Cameron's eyes went wide for a moment and then calmed, huffing. "You think that's significant?"

"Everything's significant."

Cameron's eyes shot to the ceiling a third time, this time with her mouth open and disbelieving. She licked her lips.

"He's… my boss," she responded.

"But there was something else… before… right?"

"He… God…" she muttered. "This is hard to explain." The statement was quiet and embarrassed.

"Take your time."

After a few moments, Cameron continued. "We went on one date. I asked him. But he's… difficult."

"Who called it off?"

"He… no one called it off. It was one date and it didn't go that well."

"Awkward?"

Cameron laughed, an inconspicuous 'ha." She paused, looked at her tea again. "I… yeah," Cameron stated, frowning.

Detective Jones made a note, nodded, put her hand on top of Cameron's. Cameron's fingers opened, squeezed, and her head nodded, eyes tearing again.


	6. Flag Raising

_Loosen your hold loosen your grip, on your old ways that have fallen out of step  
in a changing time  
hoist a new flag  
hoist a new flag_

_Angry sun burn down, judging us all  
guilty of neglect and disrespect and thinking small  
and death by boredom, and death by greed, if we can't stop taking, more than we need_

_David Gray_

_Birds Without Wings_

Chapter 6: Flag Raising

The day after reminded him of the day he'd heard his mother had Alzheimer's. Foreman got up late, the knowledge that he had the day off thick in his head. Sleeping in was a luxury, and he might as well take advantage of it. When he'd looked at the clock, he could barely believe the time: Noon.

The last time he had slept until noon had been when he was in undergrad- after finals week his junior year at Columbia . And then he'd had a girlfriend in his bed to explain his curious exhaustion.

This time, it was just him, lying in bed in his pajama bottoms and a tank, his hand on his forehead, pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger. Dammit.

His first instinct was to call the hospital- Cuddy or Wilson- to find out if House was still alive.

He's fine. Foreman convinced himself. House had to be fine, or Foreman might be out of a job. Or he might have a better one. House would live, he decided.

Despite the inclination to have the opinion that House was a bastard, Foreman was the only one of the three fellows to realize that House was just a man. Foreman respected him, honored him as a superior doctor, but realized that he could make mistakes. And this, obviously, had been the mistake to cap them all.

Making someone so mad they shot you. Yep, big mistake.

Foreman threw the covers off, got to his feet, and headed for his kitchen. Even after he'd picked up his newspaper from the front door, made the coffee, and poured a bowl of cereal, he still couldn't get the inclination to check up on House out of his mind. It pulled at him. He couldn't focus on the newspaper, and stared blankly ahead, chewing, swallowing. Eric Foreman was neither impatient nor a worrier. If something needed to be done, he did it. If something was worth worrying about, he either got over it or acted to rectify it.

Folding the unread newspaper and slapping it back on the table, Foreman took the remainder of his coffee back to the bedroom.

After the rush of the previous day, the hospital seemed eerily quiet. Foreman vaguely wondered if news of the event had dissuaded potential patients from entering their grounds, preferring to treat their illnesses by other means. The admittance clerk looked at Foreman just a moment too long, though, and Foreman pretended not to notice, heading for the stairs and taking them two at a time. He had little doubt as to what he'd run into once he got there- but the scene still made him wince. Some things never changed.

Wilson was hovering at the ICU nursing station, the look of a worried friend hanging on his features. The nurse in front of him was smiling sympathetically, sucking up the need, occasionally placing a hand on top of Wilson's. Cameron was by House's bed, silently reading. At least she'd changed clothes- she wore scrubs. Her eyes kept blinking, as if there were something in them, or she had difficulty keeping them open. And House himself- unconscious, seemed the most peaceful Foreman had ever seen, with the exception that he was hooked into at least five different apparatuses and obviously unconscious.

Foreman gave a quiet knock on glass framing the door, announcing his presence to Cameron, who looked up and flipped the book facedown on her lap, sighing.He entered the room reluctantly, looking towards the monitors, his lips pinched. Everything seemed under control and his first urge, upon seeing that, was to berate Cameron for being there. House could probably care less. Do him a favor- call his hooker instead. The man was insufferable, why bother suffering for him?

But Foreman's brush with death and Cameron's subsequent aid, made him think twice about berating her. What would it serve? To anger her perhaps, make her more steadfast to stick around. He avoided the confrontation, but couldn't think of much else to say except "How is he?"

Her response was typical, scientific. So far so good, no problems, no infection. But he was still unconscious. He'd been extubated that morning, but they'd left the NG tube as a precaution. He was holding his own and was expected to continue to do so.

Foreman nodded, silent, as he took in her appearance again from the corner of his eye. Her make-up gone, her hair pinched into a bun at the back of her head. There might've been the remnants of a crying spell in the space between her eyes and the lids. Just a tinge of redness. She hadn't slept. And she hadn't gone home.

"What did the cops tell you?" Cameron asked, quietly.

Foreman shrugged in response to her question. "Not much. The usual, I guess." He was being honest. The interview had almost bored him. It was over in an hour and the detective had given him a card. "Call me if you think of anything else."He had shaken the guy's hand and gone home.

Again restraining himself, Foreman asked Cameron if she needed anything, to call him. Then he went to the diagnostic office, having the security guard bring out the briefcase that he had left the day before. Foreman noticed that the whole room was exactly the same as he'd left it- but the blood was drying. The security guard taped a sheet of paper to the floor where the briefcase had been laying. Foreman then walked into Cuddy's office. He wasn't sure why. He just knew he should check in- find out what they were supposed to do now that House would be laid up.

Cuddy was on the phone when he entered, a fist resting against her forehead. When she saw Foreman, she raised a finger, motioning at him to wait.

"…No, he's doing fine for now, but he hasn't woken up."

She listened for a moment and Foreman heard the sound of a concerned female voice on the other end.

"It was major surgery and he lost a lot of blood. He's going to be here for a while."

Foreman sat in the chair across from Cuddy, his recovered briefcase going to the other chair. His legs crossed, feigning disinterest in the conversation. Cuddy's tone was sympathetic. The options for the person on the other line were limited- could be Stacy, could be a relative. Foreman mentally bet on the latter.

Cuddy cracked her neck, picked up a pen and tapped it against her forehead. "You should try to come up…. Yes… Good… Okay. Take care." She put the phone down, sighing, and looked to Foreman.

"His parents," she said, "They'll probably be here day after tomorrow."

"You want them to make the decision for you?" Foreman probed.

Cuddy scoffed. "Their son was just shot. If it were your son, wouldn't you want to be there?"

Foreman, once again holding back a caustic statement about House and his parents, sighed. "Sure." He believed that though House's parents may want to be there, House most likely preferred them to stay away. Observing House try to duck out of his parents' last visit made Foreman think that it was likely that the relationship was just as damaged as House. Maybe it was damaged because of House. Foreman shook himself out of his reverie and spoke: "House is out of commission for a while. Longer if you go through with this treatment."

Cuddy nodded. "You'll be in charge- temporarily. At least this time, you won't have to deal with him. But just take the next few days off."

Foreman nodded, accepting. It wasn't that he wanted it- but he'd expected it. Life goes on. Foreman figured he should buy some groceries, grab some DVD's.


	7. Emergent

_Murdered gold and colours flashing  
time like blood like flowing hair  
faces merging airplanes crashing  
and before the might of all that's true  
I'll raise my head and wake to dream anew  
with a clean pair of eyes_

_David Gray_

_A Clean Pair of Eyes_

Chapter 7: Emergent

Awareness crept slowly up through his fingers- first to the hard plastic shell encasing his left index finger, to the slight ache of the needle in the vein atop his hand. The blanket under them, soft, worn. He felt the slightest tinge of discomfort in his gut and neck, like he'd worked out too hard or maybe pulled a muscle. He breathed in- deeper, almost sighing and was suddenly aware of the cool flow of oxygen through his nostrils. And something else- something foreign, extending through his nostrils, further south, down his throat. He grimaced, lifted a heavy hand to his face. The now feeling fingers felt the course growth against his face, his awakening brain registering that he'd been shot, had surgery, been unconscious. His hand traveled south, to his neck, feeling the bandages there and reawakening the throbbing. He didn't remember anything injuring him there- just the one in his stomach. His hand traveled south, reaching under the blankets, and felt the packing surrounding his torso.

He remembered this from before. He'd hallucinated this scenario- waking up. But this felt different. His body felt dulled, practically dead. His arms were weights. There was smell this time- sterility and cheap laundry detergent, the taste of blood in his mouth. Reality was much less fun.

"How do you feel?"

House's eyes, dry and crusty, opened, blinking into the dim lights of the room, looking up into the slightly blurred face of his boss, who looked uncharacteristically disheveled, worry creeping into her eyes and her lips, melting it, but not quite to the grotesque. Her make-up was old, wiped away by the day. Her hair was pulled back, greasy, and loose strands hung around her brow. He could see recent sleep evident in her eyes.

He shifted a bit, still accessing himself. His tongue felt two sizes too big for his mouth. His lips were cracked, sore. The pain from his wounds, considering what he remembered, was expected. There was no burning, just the vague throb bouncing up through the medication. He was swathed in a cotton ball, the world was dampened.

"Why the NG?" he muttered, barely a whisper, referring to the tube extending to his stomach, grimacing as talking irritated his nose and throat. He shut his eyes against the irritations, lifted his chin a bit, swallowed.

"You've been pretty out of it. We weren't sure when you were going to wake up. I can take it when you're ready."

"Ready now." Irritated.

"How's everything else?" Cuddy leaned in with her penlight, flashing it across his eyes.

House winced, blinking, and ignored the question. "What time is it?"

"Late," Cuddy murmured, stepping back, going to the cabinets at the far side of the room and grabbing a pair of gloves, a basin, and a towel.

"Why are you here?" House asked as Cuddy draped the towel over his chest.

"Ready?"

House nodded and gagged as the tube was pulled out. His eyes reddened, watered and his nose immediately felt stuffy. Cuddy turned again and when she returned, she handed House the basin and a paper cup filled with green liquid . "Don't swallow- spit." He did as instructed and laid back, closing his eyes. And thus it was unexpected when a warm cloth was placed against his face, moving over his eyes and nose, down to his cheeks and mouth. Cuddy was rubbing a warm cloth against his face and he let her continue, but didn't open his eyes. He was enjoying the feeling of the damp warmth that left him feeling twice as clean. It felt too good to be embarrased. He sighed, breathing, as she turned to put the cloth to the side. House opened his eyes to watch her as he focused on measuring the extent of the damage to his body. He felt the telling feeling of another tube next to his leg. God forbid Cuddy touch that one.

"Why are you here?" he repeated, less groggy.

"I drew the short straw," she retorted. Then she sighed, putting her hands on the rail of the bed. "Cameron wouldn't leave you alone. Wilson refused to sleep. I told them I'd take the watch. They smelled bad."

House mulled this over in his head for a moment, thoughts tagging along behind the steady pull of what he assumed was morphine.

"What's the damage?" It was more of a sigh than a question.

"What do you remember?"

"Got shot."

"You had a magic bullet. It bounced off of a rib or two- lacerated your right kidney, nicked your bowel and stomach. Hence the NG. Second one nicked your jugular and lodged in the floor." House's eyebrows lifted and he fingered the padding on his gut again as Cuddy continued: "That was yesterday. You lost a lot of blood…" she trailed. House sighed, shut his eyes. The questions were pending, floating tension in the two feet that separated him from his boss. "You asked for Ketamine," she paused. "In the ER…. Do you remember?"

House breathed, still fingering the gauze wrapping around his torso. If they knew about the Ketamine, he wondered if they knew about the morphine- like his hallucination. He barely remembered being in the ER and wasn't exactly sure that it hadn't been part of the hallucination. He couldn't stalk off. Couldn't even magically disappear to reappear in the stairwell, wondering where time went. Hazy thoughts searched for a retort, an off-topic remark to draw the attention away from the request, a remark on Cuddy's blouse, a stabbing comment about her guilt, tell her kids were more trouble than they were worth, wasn't the hospital enough?

"House."

Her voice was stern, but somehow sympathetic and House realized that his eyes had shut and that he'd been drifting in a myriad of pre-sleep thoughts. Everything felt weighted. Seconds extended to minutes and hours.

"Tired." It was a whisper, half-conscious.

Cuddy sighed, resigned. "You should get some rest."

House turned his head, and let the exhaustion pull his eyes closed.

* * *

It wasn't that Wilson was a bad doctor, in fact he was exceedingly good. Terribly young for a department head- probably why his relationships failed. Work came first. Wives and friends came second. Often his emotions were confused- he treated his relationships like projects; his medicine like a relationship. When friends and medicine were paired, as they so often were when they dealt with House (whether professional or in the context of a medical problem- addiction, for instance), the two combined into a gangrenous pool of too much _care_. It was what House thought anyway- of Wilson's prodding into his medical condition. So it was to his dismay that the next time he awoke, it was Wilson doing the prodding. House opened his eyes to find Wilson looking at something near his face and frowning. By the feel of it, he was checking the sutures on his neck, looking very closely, in fact. "How's it looking?" Wilson jumped back, startled.

"Jesus, House…"

Wilson straightened up, recovered, grabbed a new gauze pad and tape from the cart next to the bed, and re-bandaged the wound before he spoke again.

"It's healing," Wilson answered House's earlier question. "How's…everything else?"

House shut his eyes. "I'm fine."

"MRI was the same… again." Wilson uttered, looking at a spot on the wall, absently crossing his arms. House's mouth opened, shut again, sighed. After the initial infarction, he'd had yearly MRI's, documenting the slow atrophy and wasting of his leg. Eventually, its degeneration had stabilized and nothing was ever normal, but it never changed either.

"Could've told you that."

Wilson nodded, looking away again and keeping his arms crossed as he paced to the wall in front of the bed and leaned against it, his right leg crossing over his left as he stood. The thought of House's request sprung to his mind, but he shook it off. It was crazy. It was radical. It was something House would do to a patient if there was no other choice but death. As he stared as his best friend, the gauntness and the growth of beard on his face, the i.v.'s, the cardiac leads, the bandages that peeked through the 'v' in the hospital gown, he wanted desperately to confront him- tell him it wasn't real pain, that he was asking for this radical treatment for a perceived illness that didn't exist in physical reality. But the very fact that House was asking for this treatment was a testament to its reality and that the radical measures were the last alternative.

Wilson had read over the procedure required for the experimental conditions. Patients were left completely dependent on medical care for five days- put on a ventilator, catheterized, with multiple i.v. lines for nutrition and monitoring. He'd be flat on his back for those five days, susceptible to lung and bladder infections, not to mention painful bedsores. He'd be unable to move for a few days afterwards, have difficulty for weeks, even if the pain in his leg was gone. He'd have to give up his fierce independence for complete reliance- something he hadn't done since he'd allowed Cuddy and Stacy to put him into an induced coma after the infarction. Wilson knew that House was saying something by willing to go through with a procedure that put his trust in everyone else. Exactly what he was saying was incomprehensible.

Wilson stared at his friend a moment longer.

House, seemingly frustrated with Wilson's silence, reached for the television remote and absently began flipping through channels, trying to ignore Wilson's cautious silence.

If Wilson wanted to say something, House wished he'd say it. The silence was unnerving. So he'd been shot. So he'd asked for the one thing that could possibly make his life bearable again. House wasn't sure of Wilson's intentions just yet and he wasn't sure he wanted to know them.

"Did you know the guy?" Wilson spoke, finally, breaking the moment of awkwardness with an easy question.

"Maybe," House responded, seemingly despondent. "Don't remember."

Wilson paused for a moment, wanting to keep talking, but somehow unable to speak about anything meaningful. He'd hoped that mention of the shooter would bring House into a conversation, but it had fallen flat. He brought up the first thing that might make House reply with something more than a one or two word phrase, but didn't broach the subject of Ketamine. "Stacy called. Your name wasn't even mentioned, but she knew it was you…"

"What did you tell her?" House asked, his eyes flicking from the screen to Wilson, interested.

"I told her what happened." Wilson stayed against the wall, tapping a finger against his bicep.

"Is she coming?" House asked.

Wilson shook his head. "I think you had the final say in that one. She was concerned..." The hurt flashed through House's eyes and in another moment, before House had the opportunity to think about it more, Wilson switched the subject again. Keep talking. "Cleaned your apartment."

House was back to silent nods. Screw up. He never should have poked at the wound.

"I've got Chase on rat duty," Wilson lied, still trying to spark a reaction.

Another silent nod made Wilson frustrated. No witty remark, not even a glare.

House flipped the television off and put his head back on the pillow again. "I'm tired."

Wilson nodded, knowingly. "I've got rounds in fifteen. Get some rest."

Wilson strode out the door, beginning with a quick walk, then slowing once he reached the corner. He had an hour before rounds. It was obvious to him that either House was too uncomfortable to bother with conversation or was caught up in his own thoughts. Wilson didn't want to push him in either circumstance. Let him mull it over. Let him heal. Even if House had been willing to talk it through, Wilson wasn't sure what he wanted House to say, where the conversation should go. He did know, however, that he wasn't ready to deal with the reality of House's situation.

The harsh reality was that House's injuries and his prior condition made complete recovery questionable. It didn't matter if the pain in his leg was real or not- if it existed, it was a problem. To get him on his feet was important, to restore circulation, to get him moving, but he had an eight inch incision running vertically down his abdomen, a resected bowel, and a stitched up half functioning kidney, a cracked a posterior rib. If walking was a bitch before, it would be impossible now. Wilson shook his head again and headed back to his desk.

* * *

A physiotherapist by the name of Karl, who House compared to a Nazi by the same name, roused him just after noon, and convinced him to try to move. House was concrete. "If you don't try to get some mobility back now, you'll be even stiffer than before." Karl worked with patients in all forms. He worked with patients that had been in a coma for three years. He worked on patients coming out of knee surgery and still anesthetized.

Karl had desperately hoped, when he heard that he was assigned Dr. House's case, that Dr. House would stay unconscious for a few days. The pressure of working on a doctor, and a well-known asshole at that, made Karl stay in the cafeteria just a moment longer, gathering his reserves for what he knew would be a tough battle. The customer was awake. And the customer was terminally unsatisfied.

But Karl was a man of his word and a man who held his work ethic and commitment to the extreme, so he dragged himself up the stairs by his own collar, pushed himself into the ICU, and wandered into House's room.

"Dr. House?" Karl said, quietly trying to rouse him. Karl tapped House's face, lightly. "Dr. House, PT time. If aren't awake now, you'll be awake in a few minutes." Despite House's eventual accusation, Karl was not a Nazi. He loved kittens and puppies and he didn't believe in waking up ICU patients by moving them into painful positions. Better that they had a warning.

House had grumbled an unintelligible response, tried to turn on his right side. Denied the movement by the pain in his gut, neck, and leg, House rolled back to center, opening his eyes and blinking. "Now?"

Karl nodded and turned to shut the blinds to the room, giving them some privacy. He pulled the blanket from House's legs, began to work his ankles and calves, pushing and pulling, prodding the muscles into movement.

"Listen, I'm really tired right now," House complained after two minutes.

"We have to do this until you're up on your own again. If you want to try to walk, we can do that, too."

"It hurts." House stated simply "And I'm practically tied to this bed," he said, pulling at the i.v. So either sedate me or leave."

Karl shook his head, not taking the bait. He was a man who did his job. "I'll call Dr. Cuddy, I'm sure she'll have something to say."

House frowned, rested his head back on the pillow and Karl grabbed his left knee, moving and bending it. He was gentler with the right, but House's face was red and sweating by the time Cuddy walked in. He was gasping and seething with each movement.

"If this is your idea of torture, it's working," House grunted as Karl lowered his leg again and covered him.

Cuddy grabbed House's chart and frowned, unresponsive to his remark. She looked it over and, satisfied, she put it back down as Karl moved to House's arms. House relaxed again, his breathing coming slower and his face less red.

"Where are the kids?" House gasped, when his breathing was under control again.

Cuddy leaned over the morphine and tapped it up a bit, giving House a bit more relief. He was still gasping as Karl maneuvered his arms.

"I gave them a few days. They watched you get shot."

"Didn't die… yet," House retorted as Karl stopped.

"We'll get you on your feet tomorrow, Dr. House."

"Yeah… you and what army?"

Karl, his eyebrows lifting, his lips turned down, nodded knowingly. Bastard. Thank god Chuck was next. Chuck hadn't moved on his own in a year and wouldn't last another two months.

House watched his tormenter leave and then looked to Cuddy as the extra morphine kicked into action. "Thanks," he muttered, relaxing again. She rested her hands on the rail, spread them, and looked down at him.

"You should've told us what was going on, House. If anyone else finds out about your private stash…" Quick and dirty. Just how he liked it. So she did know. The next question was how she found out. Either Wilson said something, or he'd done a poor job sticking himself. He managed a quick glance towards his arms. When did he get sloppy?

With the tasty pull of the upped dosage, House's witticism was back. "I only party after work and on the weekends."

"You should have told us. We could've done something."

"What? Tell me it's in my head? Give me a shot of saline?"

"I'm sorry," Cuddy, quietly, still looking at him. "If you still want the Ketamine once you're out of ICU, we'll discuss it then- after we've given every other option a chance. It's an extreme treatment, House."

House realized the irony of Cuddy's words- the fact that seven years ago, he'd wanted every option to have a chance and every option had been reduced to one by an induced coma and a medical proxy. Cuddy left before House could say anymore, leaving him to stew alone.

After an hour, contemplation turned to boredom, and boredom to exhaustion as House's injuries overtook him and he descended, once again, to sleep.


	8. Sour Pickles

**Thanks to all the review staff ;) You light up my day in this time of quickly waning sunlight and gathering snow... **

**2 chapters for you today. Enjoy :)**

_Step down the alley  
walking against the stony crowd  
trying not to listen  
but they shout so loud  
chew you up and spit you out  
crush you between its finger and its thumb  
the world in all its anger  
oh and there's always more to come_

_David Gray _

_Hold Onto Nothing_

Chapter 8: Sour Pickles

Cameron's treadmill began slowing once the red numbers said 45:00. As the tread slowed to a walking pace, she swiped the sweat from her forehead with the towel that had hung on the rail in front of her. Bits of her hair had fallen loose, and she pushed them back, much like the thoughts she was trying to erase. The run had taken her mind off things for just a moment- the concentration focused on getting past the next minute with her lungs and legs in tact. There was something to be said for physical pain- it was a distraction from emotions and concern.

But as soon as her breathing calmed and her legs slowed their trembling, Cameron's thoughts returned to the events of the past week. She thought of House's pacing- relentless and troubled. Agitated day in and out, eyes red in the morning and squinting through the night. And then she thought of his slightly unbelieving glance as a gun was pointed at his face. She thought of how she hadn't really heard the second shot at all. After the loudness of the first, her ears rang. And then Foreman had jumped and she hadn't been sure if she was still alive. Except for a moment of fleeting shock, instinct and training had been her guide- right up until House's eyes had opened wide and he'd muttered "hello." And the humanity of the situation made her more basic instincts takeover- to nurture, protect, comfort. "It's going to be okay." She'd been grateful and disappointed when the nurse and taken her hands, pushed her back to the foot of the bed. And then she'd stood and stared blankly at her inability to think or act. Despite the fact she was a doctor- trained, experienced in emergency situations. Doctoring instincts were compromised when a personal relationship was involved. No matter boss and subordinate, colleague, lover. His blood on her hands, on Chase's hands. His life in her hands for just a few moments on the interminable desperate ride to the ER.

Letting her heart slow a bit more, Cameron wiped her head again and began shucking clothes as she headed for her shower. The hot water cleansed her body. The rest would take more than soap and water.

The phone rang as she wrapped the towel around her hair. She went to it, clasping her robe around her. It was Wilson on the other end, telling her that House was awake, lucid. Cameron wanted to see him. Wilson didn't think it was a good idea. He was still sleeping most of the time, he'd said. Still dosed on morphine. Still in a lot of pain and letting everyone know it. Give him a day or two- let him get on his feet again and let go of some of the more embarrassing aspects of being in the ICU. She said she would. She'd send him some flowers. He'd scoff and grimace and be embarrassed all the same. Cameron would feel a little better for it.

House's face soured when he saw the bouquet of flowers coming in from the nurse's station. Had to be Cameron's idea. Cuddy knew him better. Wilson wasn't gay. And Stacy couldn't. So when they were followed by Cuddy and a nurse, House blamed his boss for allowing them to be sent. Cuddy made no response, just peered at his monitors, taking note that his heart rate was higher than normal, and she watched as the nurse took notes off of the machinery onto House's chart.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"That's the fourth time you've asked me since…" House paused, trying to remember how many early morning rounds he'd seen pass. He couldn't come up with a clear answer and continued: "Since whatever day it was when I woke up. Do we need to have a _chat_?" The attempt at a joke fell flat and Cuddy crossed her arms, going straight to business.

"What do you want to do with your team?"

Thinking of an answer, House turned his head when the nurse wanted his ear for the thermometer. The thermometer beeped and House didn't miss the glance that the nurse gave Cuddy as she was writing. Cuddy motioned for the chart, glanced it over.

"Your temperature's up, House." She didn't mention the flushed tone of his face.

"I can't help myself... you're…"

"It's over 100."

House shrugged, winced as the movement pulled on his abdomen.

Cuddy moved to him, tugging the flimsy gown to its side to reveal the swath of bandages surrounding House's torso. The nurse was already ready with the scissors and handed to them to Cuddy when she held her hand out.

Cuddy might've said, when she was in her first year of residency, that it was really the patients that she loved. She enjoyed seeing them, interacting, solving their problems, and seeing them recover. Even as she'd said it, the emotional distance that she'd so carefully learned and respected as a matter of necessity in treating bodily ills, was maintained. As she'd moved through the medical setting, gaining on her peers, succeeding where others were stagnant, she'd distanced herself physically from most of her patients. Instead of seeing them face to face, she saw their paperwork, their blood tests, diagnosed their ills, recommended treatment, heard of their recovery.

She'd been forced into taking House's case seven years beforehand. House didn't make it a point of practicing what he preached and he didn't have a primary care physician. The last doctor he'd seen had died of a stroke two years beforehand and House, despite Stacy's urgings, had neglected to find another. So when he was misdiagnosed and mistreated in the hospital where she was considered "next in line," Cuddy had taken his case. It hadn't been much of a big deal then- she knew him as a co-worker, a former fellow student, and someone in need of expert medical care. Mostly, she oversaw, except for the one night where everything had stopped for a minute and she'd had to jolt his heart back to life. But afterwards, maybe because of it, she'd developed a tighter relationship with Stacy, resulting in even more guilt over House, and leading her to this:

Nervous over touching a patient.

Just tissue and blood and guts. No big deal. Just skin.

House, resigned and embarrassed, turned his head, unable to look at her. When the bandages were gone, his stomach was bare. Shaved. Still orange from the betadine and swollen. The incision was red at the edges, inflamed. Cuddy, her hands now gloved, touched the edges of it, wincing. She pushed down on it, noting that it was still supple.

"Feel sick at all, House? Have you been keeping anything down?"

"You mean that liquid diet they've been forcing on me?" Cuddy looked at him. It was a look House recognized: the one that said that it might be more important than a joke. "No. I didn't notice anything different."

Nodding, Cuddy peeled her gloves off and tossed them in the biohazard bag. She turned to the nurse, barking orders for antibiotics and blood tests. Cuddy turned back to House, this time pulling the dressings from his neck wound.

"If they left a sponge, I'll sue. Who did my surgery?"

Cuddy ignored his question, taking the dressing on House's neck off and disposing of it. "This one looks okay," she said more to the nurse, "but I think you just bought yourself an extra day in ICU."

House looked down at his stomach. The bullet wound was small, neat, compact. It was the surgical incision that told him that the bullet was more damaging than its appearance. It was ugly, the inflamed ridges marked by heavy black stitches, tied in a knot near his belly button. Like the bear that his dog had ripped all the stuffing out of when he was five. His mom had stitched it up, but she hadn't been able to find any matching thread at the PX, so the stitches were neat, but grossly apparent. It also reminded him of the first time he'd seen his leg after the surgery- that had looked neat too. It had been swollen enough to look like there was still something there. He couldn't see how much muscle was actually missing. He had seen the tubing coming out the side of his leg, but not the drainage bottle under the bed. It hadn't been for a month afterward that the indentation began to cave his leg in, make it repulsive.

House began to feel the effects of the fever. Suddenly cold, and bared to the waist, his hand reached for the blanket. His arm was covered with goosebumps. Cuddy had hung an additional i.v. and she was straightening it, catching glances at him.

"I'll get a nurse to wrap you back up. Try to get some rest."

By afternoon, his fever was spiking. He shivered under the too thin hospital blankets. Nothing would've been thick enough. He yelled at Cuddy for allowing him to get shot. He yelled at Cameron when she ignored Wilson's request to stay away. He was at his ugliest, and even her undying need to care couldn't handle his fever-induced condescending tones. Angry, ill, he'd been embarrassed when he'd lost his liquid lunch on her shoes. The embarrassment had turned back to anger within seconds and if it hadn't been for his weakness and his pain, he might have physically hurt her. Cameron had turned, called for a nurse, and left. House yelled at Wilson when he followed the nurse into the room. And Wilson yelled back, even as the nurse pushed the Compazine into the port.


	9. Beer and Buddies

_A million to one outsiders  
Nightblindness can't see your bright eyes  
Or what the time is  
Twenty five past eternity  
Here listening to the sirens  
Coming closer now further away  
What we gonna do when the  
money runs out  
I wish that there was something left to say_

_David Gray_

_Nightblindness _

Chapter 9: Beer and Buddies

Foreman and Chase never hung out. Occasional beers after work, usually accompanied by Cameron and sometimes a few of the nurses- the curious, naïve ones. Just across the street, and only for an hour or two. The bar was a deep dark brown, sparsely lighted, with unpolished wooden booths and a long bar of the same wood at the front. They'd sit at the bar, stare at their beers, and laugh at their job. They had nothing in common but the job. Foreman, the middle class black kid. Chase, the upper class foreigner with a world famous father. The boxer and the surfer. The guy who worked for everything he wanted, and the guy who got everything he didn't want. Cameron had been the one to call them both, tell them both that she needed a drink and there was no one else she could think of calling. Foreman had sighed into the phone, knowing immediately that she'd been to see House and that it hadn't gone well. Chase was more confused, but also more eager to meet with her.

Cameron held tight to her wine glass, swirling the red liquid within its confines as Foreman stared into his beer. Chase got the stool next to Cameron and ordered a beer for himself. Nothing had been said. It was Tuesday night. The bar was sparsely populated and the music playing, some pop song that someone had chosen from the jukebox, was almost too quiet to be heard. Chase noted that the bar looked cleaner than he'd ever seen it. He couldn't even catch a whiff of a cigarette.

They started with niceties. The _How are yous,_ Cuddy's recommendation that they talk the hospital shrink, how long they were taking off of work and what they'd done with their day. Chase had seen the guy with the swollen tongue was taken care of by another doctor: allergy, he'd said. He's fine.

"So, how'd it go?" Foreman asked, finally tired of the subtle tension that Cameron emanated. "How is he?"

Cameron scoffed, having never said she'd seen him. "He's not well. He's got an infection."

Chase pursed his lips. Foreman drank from his beer.

"You could've told us this on the phone…" Chase said.

"I needed a drink."

"What did he say to you?"

Cameron glared at Chase, the question seemingly too personal, yet it had been exactly what she wanted. She wanted the question, so she could answer it angrily. So she could tell them blatantly.

"He blamed me. He blamed us."

Foreman smirked. Characteristic. "You said it yourself. He's not well. And we didn't piss off that guy. _He_ did."

"He blamed us for saving him."

Foreman sobered, drank from his beer as the three fell silent. Chase looked around the rest of the bar, keeping his thoughts to himself. Of course he would've blamed them. The opportunity to get life over with. The opportunity to have it all pass away violently and suddenly- no agonizing painful demise, but a short, quick burst and unconsciousness dwindling to death. It would have been easier. Chase had his own questions about House's state of mind. All three of them had their diagnoses of House's mental health, ranging from depression (Cameron) to psychopath (Foreman). But House always had his reasons, his rationality. The rationality, the questions, and the one friendship he had with Wilson were probably the only reasons that House hadn't hooked himself into a Kavorkian apparatus.

"He's in pain…" Chase started.

"More than usual," Foreman added, betraying his customary disapproval of Houses's use of the term. It was more of an attempt to calm Cameron's nerves.

Foreman and Chase never doubted that their boss was on edge. Cameron only saw that House needed someone to help him. Cameron would have accused Foreman and Chase of being pessimistic. They accused her of naïvity behind her back. Foreman spoke again, changing the subject to something less personal.

"Moriarty's grand jury hearing is on the 21st. We'll have to testify." Chase and Cameron nodded. "House too."

"That'll be fun," Chase murmured.

"He won't plead out. He's claiming irresistible impulse. His wife died two days prior. Her funeral was that morning. Prosecutor says that its not a viable defense because House didn't have anything to do with her death directly."

"You've been talking to him?" Cameron asked.

"What else have we got to do?" The silence returned.

Chase pushed the last of his beer back with a grimace and put his hands flat on the bar. "Cameron, House will be fine," he said, telling her what she wanted to hear. "Leave him alone," he said, standing and putting a five dollar bill next to the empty bottle. "Cuddy gave us the week off, I'm going to get as far away from here as possible."

Foreman lifted his chin to Chase in a customary nonverbal goodbye. And Cameron shook her head. "You don't care our boss is suicidal?"

"If he were suicidal," Chase started, "He'd have already done it. When does House _not_ do anything he wants to do? He sleeps in exam rooms, wears t-shirts to work, and blatantly disregards every rule ever made. He probably just wanted you out." Foreman's eyes went to the side, thinking over Chase's words before nodding his head. "See you guys next week."

Cameron scoffed again and sipped from her glass. "You think he's right?"

Foreman opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, the formulation of word and thought at a temporary mismatch. He sighed. "House is crazy. Shooting him didn't change anything." Thought said aloud. Ambiguity rampant, but words full enough to leave Cameron silent again. Foreman finished his beer. Cameron was still sipping her glass of wine. "Look, he's going to be fine. Forget the whole thing happened. Chances are that he'll forget too and everything will go back to normal. It'll be fine."

Cameron nodded as Foreman got to his feet and put down enough cash to cover his bill and her glass of wine.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

* * *

Cuddy's desk was a mess. The new employee guide, still in draft loose leaf fluttered in multiple stacks. Errant piles of billing procedures cluttered her inbox and another stack of vendor pamphlets cluttered the second. GE was trying to sell them a second MRI. Cuddy signed off on a prepared letter, catching a brief glance of its contents- written by her assistant- the newest in a pool of moderately efficient lackeys.

Cuddy sighed, threw the letter in her outbox, and put her hands to her face in resignation. It had been two long hours since House had tossed his liquified cookies. The dose of Compazine pushed through the port had ended his feverish reign of terror. She picked up the phone, put it back down. Was she being overprotective? She picked it up again, dialed Wilson's extension. His answer was quick, terse. "Wilson."

Cuddy imagined him, perched at his desk much the same as she was at her's. The paperwork surrounding him, pen in hand under the lone desk light. The computer screen flashing some journal article or maybe a patient's most recent test results. He hadn't looked at the phone's digital display or he would've known it was her.

"Any change?"

"His temperature's down a degree."

The faintest of relief touched Cuddy's stomach, quieting her nerves.

"I think he scared Cameron," Wilson admitted, smirking a little, but not allowing it to move further than his lips.

"Not surprising."

"He was pretty out of it…"

Cuddy wondered where this conversation was going and stood, the pen to her mouth. "He did a lot of yelling…"

"Reminds me of his first stint as a patient here," Wilson trailed.

Cuddy nodded silently. "Yeah. So the old adage is true."

Wilson's sigh was expected and Cuddy stayed silent as Wilson got his thoughts together again.

"Things have to be different… this time. It won't be easy…"

Cuddy nodded. Last time, eight years ago, they'd let him go home. "Recuperate," they'd said. "Heal." They'd given him as much time "as needed." Cuddy and Wilson had seen the deterioration first hand. Six months later, House came back to work under quiet protest. His new primary care physician had made it his first intention to stop prescribing House opioids, instead resorting to high dose ibuprofen. The effect on House was obvious- he couldn't sleep and his mobility was shot. His physician told him that he was probably addicted to the opioids, and prescribed him an antidepressant instead, claiming it would help both physically and psychologically. House told him that he probably wouldn't see him anymore.

He came to work at noon unless Wilson dragged him out the door. He looked like he'd slept in his clothes and refused to wear the white jacket. They'd put him on half-days to accommodate him, but even the half days appeared difficult. He made an effort for a while and then Stacy had left. If it had been difficult at first, it became impossible once Stacy was gone. Even his half days were spent in front of a television or surfing the Internet.

House kept claiming that he was in too much physical pain to work. So Cuddy, taking over for House's primary care physician, had prescribed him Oxycontin in the hopes that it would help. What she couldn't predict was the severity of the side effects House might suffer. The Oxycontin would make House so dizzy he could barely stand up.

The drug took House by surprise as well. He knew the risks, the side effects. He'd had side effects from other medications, but usually they took a few days to manifest or they happened right away. House took the pill, waited for an hour, felt better, and went to work in the clinic. As he'd stood over the clinic patient, trying to insert an i.v. his vision swam and his hands started to shake. He'd pressed on, trying to shake it off, sure it was just low blood sugar. Dean Andrews had seen House struggle momentarily and shake his head, apparently confused. Andrews had stopped and watched, curious. When the patient jerked at a bad stick, her knee caught House's thigh and he'd gone down in a heap on the floor with the Andrews watching. House had yelled at the patient, who burst into tears, then House yelled at Andrews for staring.

He'd already been on edge with the dean but after the incident, Andrews acted. House hadn't even fought. He'd been dismissive about the whole thing. Wilson had followed him out of the hospital, taken him home, and collected his severance checks from his mailbox every week. House would give him the deposit slips and Wilson would go to the bank. House rarely left his home; he rarely left his couch.

He had worked occasionally, researching, writing, keeping up with current trends because he had nothing better to do. Mostly he got good at cajoling Wilson into another prescription. Cuddy wouldn't touch a prescription pad for House ever again. Something different this time, he always said to Wilson. After filtering through NSAID's, antidepressants and anticonvulsants, he started back with the opioids- beginning small, working up the ladder. The Codeine wasn't strong enough. The Darvon made gave him double vision. The Percodan made him lightheaded. He tried everything, finally settling on the Vicodin in ever increasing doses.

As soon as House didn't ask for something different, Wilson encouraged him to apply for new jobs, telling him that it had been a year already, that all of his experience could be better used as a teaching tool. He wouldn't have to touch a patient. By this time, Cuddy had become the dean and Wilson was more often than not seen having lunch with her in the cafeteria. But House seemed to be slipping further away. He gradually decreased the amount he was reading and increased the amount of time he was staring at the television, or just sleeping.

And then Wilson had gone on his third honeymoon. He was gone for two weeks- Mexico. By the time he'd gotten back, House had been out of his pain medication for three days and he'd resorted to the bottle of scotch mixed with ibuprofen. In doing so, he'd not only left a path of destruction through the apartment, but a path through his entire body. The place smelt of vomit and unwashed things. Wilson almost called 911 when he saw House's condition. He was only stopped by House's compellingly honest, yet drunken laugh that he was just bored. And that he needed to just get over it- the whole thing. "I gotta go back to work, Jimmy," he'd muttered into the toilet bowl. "How's Mexico? Maybe they're desperate for doctors there..."

Wilson had pushed Cuddy into hiring him the following day- as a consultant- while they set up a new department. Cuddy hadn't been a pushover initially, but Wilson had thrown her role in his disability into her face and she'd caved. And House started showing up again, reluctant, late, bitchy, but moving again. It was better than the alternative that both Cuddy and Wilson knew he was capable of sinking into once again if allowed.

"Who knows, maybe he'll be reborn," Wilson joked again, seeming to hear Cuddy's thoughts about what House had been; what he'd become. "He'll be overcome by the need to connect to humanity," Wilson stated, wistful.

Cuddy couldn't help but laugh a bit and put the pen on the desk again. "Right. Let me know when hell freezes over. In the meantime, I'm going down to the cafeteria for coffee. Do you want anything?"

Wilson was sure he'd make it another few hours without it, so he declined and let his eyes, after his fingers massaged them, settle back on the work in front of him.


	10. Alternative

_All night buzz on a line  
It's only blood on the rime  
Wrecks my head every time  
It leads me on  
Where'd it all go wrong_

_David Gray_

_Alibi_

Chapter 10: Alternative

House was sure that his eyes were on fire. They were burning, and tears sprung forth out of them in reaction, leaving a trail on his salted face. He tried lifting his hands to relieve his itching eyes. But the hands wouldn't cooperate. There were bowling balls attached to his wrists. His whole body felt heavy, wasted. Grimacing, he opened his eyes, the dim lights pulling a groan from his lips. Through opened eyes, he could see his arms weren't chained and he urged them, staring at them, to lift. They slowly obeyed and he swiped at his eyes to get the itch and fire out. Barely satisfied, he let his hands drop to the sheets again. Hot, sweaty, and his mouth tasted like he'd been eating from a litter box. His throat was parched. House shifted uncomfortably, trying to prolong the inevitable. He was either going to die of thirst, or he was going to call the damn nurse.

Just as he was about to give in, to urge his fingers towards the call button, the blinds shifted, clattered, and someone moved into the room. House sighed, louder than he meant, and lifted his head an inch. Wilson. Turning as soon as he realized House wasn't asleep, Wilson, one hand on his hip, the other holding a coffee, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, looked down at House, searching for words.

"It's not polite," House rasped. "Do something productive, get me some water."

Wilson moved to the stand and poured a cup of water with a straw in it, handing it to House. House struggled with steadying his grip, but managed. Wilson tried to look amused, but the only feeling he had was fear. Fear that his best friend wouldn't get better. Fear that this would be the final straw, the downward spiral. It often happened that way. Like a healthy elderly man, running three times a week, suddenly falls down the stairs. First it's the hip, then it's the pneumonia, then it's the heart and finally the will to live. House wasn't elderly, but he already had problems and his will to live was questionable. House handed the cup back to Wilson, and his head went back to the pillow.

"I'd kill for a hot shower…"

"Pretty sure Brenda would give you a warm sponge bath."

"She's not coming near me."

"You know what they say about tough-as-nails nurses…"

House frowned. "You'd know better than me."

Wilson pulled a plastic chair near the bed, resting his elbows on his knees, still not sure what to say or how to say it. What do you say to the man you're afraid will die? Do you tell him he'll be okay? Do you tell him he'll be better soon? Tell him he's your bestest bud and that you don't care if he's an ass and addicted to the pain medication you prescribed to him? "Not polite to stare…"

"You mentioned that," Wilson responded and settled on "How are you?" as a conversation starter.

House's voice was better after the water and he shifted a bit. Comfort still eluded him. "Was that a rhetorical question?"

"Your temperature's down."

House nodded.

"Listen- I'm sorry…" Wilson started.

House shook his head. "You didn't do anything."

"Last week… I…"

Last week, House's pain had gotten the best of him.

He'd woken on Saturday morning, everything from his knee to his groin on fire, burning, aching. He'd paced for four hours before he'd reached for the box. Cuddy's call and the ensuing case had kept him occupied, but hadn't kept the pain at bay and he'd been grateful when it was over and Crandall was gone. When he'd crept back to his couch after four days of hard work, he'd taken the box down again, sat down on the couch, and had had no guilt on injecting himself. He'd suffered long enough. He'd deserved relief.

It was the first time he'd had morphine in seven years and it slid into his veins like an egg through a snake's throat- too big, stretching the skin, but satisfying the hungry pain. It had slipped further, deeper, and House snapped off the tourniquet, letting the drug move, letting it surge. His leg had been quaking from the effort of staying still, but then he lifted it, despite its protest, to rest on the couch in anticipation of the morphine's lull. His left leg had followed as the morphine had hit House's head in a blurry rush. His vision swam. Something had crinkled in his back pocket and he lifted to withdraw it. Test results.

_Crandall. _

_Leona. _

_Negative. _

It was a good deed, right? Crandall had wanted a daughter. Leona had wanted… needed a father. He'd done something decent, even if it was a lie. A white lie- like Wilson telling his wife she was beautiful when she had the flu and was hacking up last night's pork chops. Made someone feel good. White lies. There was still guilt- just a bit. But as the morphine had spread through his system, the guilt began to dissipate with the pain and everything else. House had thrown the results onto his coffee table and shut his eyes just as the phone began ringing.

_Wilson. _

_Oh well. _

Wilson, meanwhile, had crooked his mouth and put his hands on his hips as he put down the phone, glimpsing back at the television. His mind hadn't been able to stay focused on it- he'd kept thinking of seeing House pace the hallways, of House gripping his thigh, House admitting his guilt. He had tried to remember if the pain had started before or after Crandall. Was he wrong? Wilson was the first to insist that House had some sort of psychosomatic pain- he knew there was always going to be pain, but was it as bad as House believed it to be? Worth the 80 mg of Vicodin? House hadn't said anything to him the day before Crandall showed up. He'd been distant… antsy….dammit.

Wilson flipped channels. Braves… Red Sox. Yankees. Smokey and the Bandit part III.

House hadn't complained. He'd kept it to himself- working it out by the pacing. He'd called the masseuse. He hadn't complained- but he _never_ complained until someone noticed. Until someone brought it up. Even when Wilson had brought it up, House had kept quiet, shut his mouth, focused on the case. Focused on a case, still in pain… he wasn't bored. He wasn't malingering. He'd been desperate. And whether it was psychosomatic or real, it was still pain. And House in pain was House seeking relief.

An hour later, Wilson had found himself outside House's apartment, 2 boxes of Chinese food and a six pack of Grolsch in his hands- make-up gifts. He'd knocked, but House didn't answer. Wilson checked outside and saw the bike. Checked the alley and saw the car. He couldn't see in the windows. He'd knocked twice. So he'd dug out his key and slipped it in, turning it and opening.

He saw the flash of red on the couch. The television was on, but there was no sound, except a soft swoosh of exhalation. Wilson had shut the door quietly, wondering if he should drop the food in the fridge and leave. He had been halfway to the kitchen before he looked back and saw something odd on the table- rubber? He dropped the food on the countertop and turned back to peer over the couch with his hands on his hips. He'd taken in the wasted syringe, the paper, the tourniquet. There had been a drop of dried blood on House's inside elbow.

_"_House," he started, loudly. "House, wake up." Wilson had moved around in front of the couch now, sitting on the coffee table. He took House's wrist- slow pulse, steady. House had groaned and he swallowed shifting his face towards the back of the couch.

"House! What did you take?"

"G'way," he'd slurred, putting a hand to his eyes.

"Yeah," Wilson had muttered under his breath. "What's in the syringe, House? Demerol? Morphine? Heroin?" The last an attempt to garner a response more than an accusation.

The attempt had worked and House turned his face towards the ceiling again, blinking against the limited light and frowning. "I'm not stupid." He'd gotten the terms out clearly, but only barely.

_"_If it hurts, you take the Vicodin. That's the deal. You don't get to treat yourself special because you're a doctor."

"Gotta sleep."

"You gotta do something else. This is out of control."

"It hurt."

"The Vicodin…"

"Didn't work. I took double. I took one more. I quit. Third time- you know they lied about that?"

Wilson had shaken his head and rubbed his face, covering his eyes, giving in as a conscience and going back to being a doctor. House had been stretched out on the couch, the one hand still over his eyes while the other sat on top of his thigh. "Was it nerve pain or the muscle this time?"

"Nerve."

"How far?" They'd been through this before.

"Far enough_."_

"Scale?"

"Enough."

"Give me a number," Wilson demanded.

"42." House had grumbled, shifted, and opened his eyes, looking over at the fuzzed image of Wilson sitting on his recliner, either concerned or annoyed- maybe both. He'd rubbed his face, trying to eschew the giddiness that the drug was still pushing through his mind. Wilson wouldn't believe him- never did. Everyone- except Cameron- thought it was psychosomatic. Oh, House is in pain? Maybe he's just bored, lonely- needs attention.What's bugging him now? Parents? Girlfriend left? Anniversary of some traumatic event? Soap operas were funny. He smirked a bit and then frowned, his anger at Wilson's intrusion burgeoning through the morphine's pull.

_"_Why do you care? You always think…" he pulled his legs to the side of the couch, sitting, sighing as a twinge shot through the drug, "that it's nothing. It's a conversion disorder. I'm sick in the head." His head rested on his left elbow, planted on his knee.

Wilson had opened his mouth, shut it.

_"_I didn't want this," House had muttered. "But it happened."

"Then make me understand. Convince me."

House had sighed for the umpteenth time within the few minutes. "Listen, no matter what I tell you, you're still going to want to do an MRI. When the MRI comes back negative, you're going to think it's in my head. Who knows… maybe it is. All you need to know is that it hurt. And all you want to know is that two hours ago, I gave in. I took the morphine. I need sleep."

Wilson's hands had clasped, fingers squeezing together and he placed them against his mouth as he nodded. "And now?"

_"_It's better."

"Sure."

House had reached down for his cane and planted it, pushing himself off the couch with his hands, wincing when the pain reminded him that fixes were only temporary, and turned to the kitchen once he let out his breath and got his balance. It wasn't as if he hadn't considered it. He was a doctor. He knew about psychosomatic pain, emotional vulnerabilities leading to physical weaknesses, to pain. He'd even conceded that some of it was related to his emotion. He'd admitted to himself, if no one else, that he sometimes took the Vicodin for a little courage, a little boost. His leg tended to act up more when under stress. But then, people tended to get sicker under stress- like a college kid getting strep before exams. It was fact. But sometimes, there were no reasons. Like now.

House had opened the refrigerator. Then, lifting his nose in the air, he'd spotted the containers and opened them, shutting the refrigerator with his cane. He'd taken note of the beer, but judging by the fuzziness in his head and the syringe on the table, not to mention Wilson's death stare, he figured he'd pass until he was alone again. His stomach suddenly had dropped at the smell of the food, and he'd turned his back on it, filling a glass with water instead and heading back to the couch.

_"_So what do you want to do?" Wilson implored, unmoving.

"Watch TV."

House turned the volume on the television up.

_"_You can't shoot morphine at work."

"Yeah."

"You won't be able to work."

"Great. Move a treadmill into my office in front of the whiteboard. Eight hours of that a day, I won't have to worry about my diet."

"We should do a full work…"

House was shaking his head, staring ahead, "Yeah… useful."

"Rehab."

"Again…." He swallowed drank again, put the glass on the table. "Why do you care?" Wilson was taken aback, as usual, by House's bluntness and he'd held back his gasped surprise and stumbled over an excuse. "I… thought…" he paused. "House, you're…" Another pause. "As screwed up as you are, you are a friend. I don't want to see you kill yourself."

"But it bugs you that you can't help. You can't take it away. You can't be guilty over what happened and you can't be guilty over not being able to help. None of it's your fault. God, you're needy."

Wilson shook his head. "Where did you get it?"

House grinned, secretive, eyebrows raised. "Wouldn't you like to know…"

"Fine."

They'd sat, silently watching the television. Eventually, Wilson had gone to the kitchen and grabbed his food and a beer. House had been intent on watching the game on the television. .

_"_How often does this happen?" Wilson asked, settling back onto the couch. Wilson's eyes stared through the television and focused instead on House

"Every Saturday usually. Though mostly I get pizza."

"The… pain. How often does it get this bad?"

House had continued to stare at the screen. "I don't keep track."

"And the morphine?"

House had shrugged, noncommittal and sarcastic. "Whenever my dealer comes up with a good price."

Wilson had sat back on the couch, eating, drinking, thinking. The only sound resonating had been the television and the occasional woosh of a passing car outside. When the game was over, House had stood up, picking up his glass and limping slowly into the kitchen to refill it. Wilson had watched as House struggled, catching the gasps, the pauses as the morphine dissipated.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Wilson had called, gathering the empty Styrofoam container and beer bottle, following House into the kitchen.

"What were you going to do? Order a hooker? Send me to a shrink?"

"If this is real pain, we can do something about it."

"I am."

"It's unhealthy."

"Healthier than pacing for eighteen hours a day."

"If you would go to the therapist…" Wilson had paused, making himself clear as House's eyes narrowed.

_"_Get out," House had murmured, staring blatantly at the kitchen counter.

"What?"

"Get out."

Wilson had thrown his hands up, sighed, and consented. House's tone had been set in stone and Wilson knew from experience that there would be no changing House's mind at the moment. House would stick him with lunch bills and con him out of some cash before the week was over. He always made Wilson pay for forgiveness, but it _would _come- eventually.

"Do me a favor- write a suicide note. Otherwise, I don't know what to do with all your crap."

House had flinched and turned to limp to his bedroom. Wilson had slammed the door behind him.

Now, as he stood over House, he regretted the words. At the time, they were meant to make an impact- to urge House into confession, rehabilitation, whatever it took to get over it. But now he realized that House had acted out of true desperation to stop the pain that was consuming him. He hadn't been trying to kill himself. He'd been trying to live.

They had skirted the issue all week, despite Wilson buying lunch every day. He had watched as House downed pill after pill. He tried to joke about the masseuse. In the mornings, House's eyes would be bloodshot and Wilson, attempting to get a reaction, would joke that marijuana was usually reserved for cancer sufferers and potheads. House had remained quiet, avoiding having any lengthy conversation. What conversation there was turned everything into something about Wilson. He turned the masseuse into a story about a hooker and how Wilson might be needing one soon. He turned the marijuana back on Wilson's dealings with it in oncology. But now House wanted Ketamine.

"I'm sorry about last week," Wilson said again. "I'm sorry I didn't do anything."

"You're apologizing for inaction," House paused, looking upwards at the ceiling. "Interesting."

Wilson sighed, rubbing his neck. What else was there to say that he hadn't said? House shut his eyes and shifted a little under the blanket, pushing himself up a bit towards the pillows. Wilson watched, frowning, struggling under his opposition to the extreme treatment, Ketamine. Asking for Ketamine meant, essentially, that House was admitting something was wrong, and, furthermore, that he was willing to do something about it other than take more pills. To Wilson, who knew House better than anyone and recognized his stubborn inability to admit defeat or weakness, the decision appeared epic. Wilson couldn't get it out of his mind. He'd come to House's room to think about it, while watching over him. He hadn't expected House to actually be awake for the thinking process- the planning- but here he was and Wilson was unprepared.

"I guess I was wrong," Wilson started. House remained silent. "You know you're an ass…" slipped out.

"Yeah, I know," House responded.

"Pain is something that's difficult to objectify. All we have is a patient's word- unless there are physical signs. And you've been… difficult… before." Wilson stood again, beginning to pace as House watched, silent, waiting for Wilson's guilt episode to end. Wilson hadn't been quite sure how to phrase his apology and it was coming out as an excuse for his behavior. The Ketamine request had answered the question as to how much the pain was affecting House and what he was willing to do to stop it. It had just been so hard sometimes- to tell when House was sulking or when the pain was actually creeping up.

"And you are an addict- so that plays a part…"

"Ohh, that's crap."

"Listen, the point is that you asked for this Ketamine treatment. I've read the studies on this. This is not going to be like taking a Vicodin. This is five days of intensive care- you'll be in a coma. This is five days that you'll be completely reli…"

House was nodding, annoyed. "Yeah yeah…I've read them too."

"But every single one of us knows that you don't let anyone…"

"If it works, it'll be worth it," House said seriously. Wilson sighed. "Besides," House muttered, lifting his arms for a second to show the tubes and wires hanging off of him. "I'm already half way there…"

Wilson paused for a moment, recalling every interaction he'd ever had with House. House liked permanence- the "quick fix" was never an option, he wanted the full deal. Always. "What changed?" he asked suddenly. "Why now?"

House's head dropped back. "After I was shot," House paused, seemingly uncertain. "I had an hallucination," he admitted.

Wilson, disbelieving, sat again, rubbed a hand across his forehead. "And this hallucination... made you want to change?"

"That guy that shot me? I'm pretty sure his wife committed suicide."

"You said…"

House shook his head. "It was my fault," he stated. "I cured her, but I ruined her life. You know _why_ I ruined her life?" He didn't let Wilson answer. "I told her the truth." Wilson's curiosity allowed House to continue. "Telling these people the god's honest truth, telling myself the truth, is depriving everything of… meaning. Telling myself that my leg is never going to heal, that I'll never get better… it's the truth." House thought of the Vicodin then- how it and sarcasm hid the pain so well, but continued without mention. "The puzzles helped- solving the big mystery and letting everyone know everything- distracted me from it and I let it get away from me. The nature of this job… it's physical and it's real. I neglected that aspect of it. Let it become abstract- so that it didn't mean anything more than a game. I've based everything on its need to be fixed. And everything on the notion that it could have been prevented. Absolutism isn't saving anyone. It's destroying… everything."

House's revelation sat warming in Wilson's belly for a moment, turning over and over until Wilson's mind could emerge with something to say to take the edge out of the moment.

"How high is your fever?" Wilson asked, smirking, breaking the silence. House's composure visibly relaxed from the pent up state of drastic disclosure. Wilson returned on a more serious note a moment later. "So do you think it will work?"

"It'll work."

"And you're sure you want to do this?"

"Absolutely."

Wilson, somehow, was relieved.

House was more on edge. Between the fever that still invaded his body and the overwhelming sense of embarrassment over his disclosure, he laid in the bed awake for far longer than he should have been. House had never been, and would never be a "touchy-feely" kind of guy. As long as he could remember, he'd recalled the hesitation when confronted by a friend or a relative- they always had to _touch _him- pats on the back, hugs, pinching cheeks until he was 16. Christ. He didn't know why he cringed- only that he'd always felt it. Some people were affectionate. He wasn't one of them, didn't want to be one of them. In forty-seven years, there were two people with whom he never hesitated to touch- his mother and Stacy.

His mother had a mother's keen instinct. She knew exactly what was going on in his head even if he didn't. She shocked him sometimes, with her knowledge and foresight. Her simple and straightforward comments left nothing to question. And while she may not have had all the answers, she had many of them. Stacy, on the other hand, knew House's actions and his motivations. But she'd never been able to pin down his thoughts or emotions. He wasn't a talker, didn't see the point in cathartic conversations that only served to either embarrass someone or make them angry. Stacy and House never had "the talk." House because he didn't see the point. Why not just see what happens? And Stacy because she knew what his response would be.

When something was wrong between him and Stacy, he'd spend the night in his office. If something was really wrong, he'd knock on Wilson's door and sleep on his couch. Then one morning, he'd wake up, go to Stacy and they'd have great make-up sex and never mention the issue again. But make-up sex didn't rectify her deception. Maybe it was because it didn't happen until six months afterwards. The delay in apologetic action caused an irreversible situation. Maybe if he'd been able to make her understand in the first place, it never would have happened.

Although revealing the hallucination had come after a day's worth of silent ruminations, it didn't change his embarrassment over the situation. After Wilson left, thinking back to the conversation, his face had burned with shame. He'd let down his guard and hated himself for it. He couldn't explain it, except to say that it was who he was. Other people- they could complain, comfort, emote. But he was better than that. He was different.

Uncomfortably shifting under the covers, his fingers gripped the loosened sheets. He wished he could roll over. His back and hips were already sore from being on it for so long. Just to roll to his side…

House lifted his hands, making sure the wires and tubing were out of the way, and gently rolled to his left, bringing his right ankle to rest in front of his left. The pressure on his back was immediately relieved and he sighed gratefully as his gut also readjusted to the new position. Sleep wouldn't cure him of his shame, but a temporary fix was better than nothing.


	11. A Father's Son

_It seems to me boy  
That you're doing all right  
I don't know what I  
I don't know where I  
Long way to go now  
Keep it all inside _

36 hours but my mind is fresh  
Live for the moment then I'm gone  
Suck on that sympathy and feel the rush  
Go on my blue eyed son

_Knowhere_

_David Gray_

Chapter 11: A Father's Son

John House loved his son. Ever since he'd seen him, just a month after his birth, John was unerringly devoted to Greg's happiness. John had been on TDY in Korea when Greg had been born. He got the news from the Ombudsman just two days afterwards and he got to go home a month early. Seeing his son for the first time, cradled against his wife's breast, had actually brought tears to the Marine pilot's eyes. Just nine months had created the miracle. Nine months had passed too quickly- and the rest would go just as fast.

John hadn't been around much when Greg was growing up. A Marine pilot goes where he's needed, when he's needed to serve his country (and therefore his family). There were always deployments- one month, three months. John came and went and always something was changing. John was at home reading the newspaper when Greg took his first step. And his first word was spoken just moments from John's departure for a two-week trip to Hawaii. But then Greg went from speaking in single words to sentences in a matter of months.

They made a short move to San Diego the following year- Greg was three. He started preschool before they left again: this time a move across country to North Carolina. The government shipped everything they had to Camp Lejeune and even put it into the house that John had bought in Jacksonville. But John decided that five years old was a great time to see the country- so John took leave and they made the long drive. It took close to three weeks and they saw everything: the Grand Canyon, Mesa Verde, Pike's Peak, the Mississippi River, the open plains of Kansas, the bunched cities and roads of the East Coast. Greg seemed to love it. He didn't ask when they'd get there and the only time John saw him sleep in the car was Kansas. He stared out the window, eyes wide to the passing world. John answered every question he could- often giving Greg the guidebook to read for himself and point out the next place to stop. Those were the good times, John thought. The best times he had had with his son.

Camp Lejeune was much the same as San Diego or Camp Pendleton. The weather was different, certainly, and the beaches were different. But a base is a base- designed to be the same in every location so that the youthful Marines and their families could better adjust to the change. The Relocation Office to let you know all about your current or next assignment, Pass and ID for your Identification, MWR for your entertainment. John and Blythe put Greg into one of the local public schools and the teachers seemed to love him for his academic prowess- commenting on how inquisitive he was, how smart he became. They said he had a bit of an ego- that sometimes he started fights. But boys will be boys.

Just after Greg's 10th birthday, John left for Vietnam. John wrote religiously. He'd send two letters- one especially for Greg, writing in words he'd understand, telling him about what he was seeing (as much as he could say), but especially what he felt, how much he missed him. _Greg, you wouldn't believe the place we went to today. It's an ancient temple- they say it used to be the capital of the Kingdom that we're in. The buildings are amazing and they're all made out of smooth red brick that they made by hand. They didn't use mud or concrete to bind them together. They used some kind of vegetable so it looks like the bricks are holding themselves together. I sure hope this place makes it through the war- I want you to see this one day. Maybe when things calm down. I'll bring you here and we can spend hours looking around and maybe find something new that no one else has seen. I have to go- we're heading out soon. Take care of your mother. I miss you. Love, Dad_. And then there were the souvenirs- trinkets he picked up on a weekend shore leave, photos that both him and his buddies took.

And then John's tour was finished- at least temporarily. John came back to Quantico, where he'd left Blythe and Greg. Blythe was ecstatic, but Greg, then 12 and already tall and lanky, looked at him suspiciously. He just didn't feel like throwing the ball around, he'd said. He was watching tv, couldn't John see that? Every time John at been at home before, Greg was always eager to be around him. Greg would ask about everything- about people in different places, about flying planes, about the military, about life. But John had been gone for almost two years and now Greg seemed different, quieter. The only questions now: What was for dinner? Where's the next PCS? Would John be leaving again soon?

John asked Blythe, late at night and alone in their bed, why Greg had changed. She didn't think that he had. "He's grown up a little, I suppose," she'd said. "He's not a naïve little boy anymore, John."

"But he seems unhappy, Blythe. I just want him to be happy."

Blythe hadn't said much else- just to give Greg some time. It had been hard on him- not having him around for two years. They were important years. She'd talked to Marsha across the street. Their son Mike had hit his dad when he first saw him and he'd only been gone for a year. Plus, being a 12 year old boy was an awkward stage. Didn't John remember? Of course he did.

But Greg didn't seem happy the whole time John was home. He rarely smiled; never seemed excited. John pulled him, complaining, outside on the weekends. They went camping, fishing- just father and son in the wilderness. They'd drive out two or three hours, camp in state parks, fish from the shore in streams and from the boat on the lakes. "The fresh air will be good for you, Greg. You're getting pale." Greg grumbled, but went along with it.

They didn't talk much on the trips. What was for dinner? Would the weather hold? Which lure should they use to catch a bass and which cove would likely be the jackpot. Once, John tried to tell Greg the facts of life, as he liked to call them. The birds and the bees, how to be a man. Greg had turned to him from the bow of the skiff, rolled his eyes and said "Dad, you don't have to explain it to me. I know."

"But son, there's some things that you'll be going thr…"

Greg turned again, slapping his hand on the side of the boat. "Dad!" Greg started. "I know!"

John didn't say anything more. He was a little disappointed that he'd missed out, but realized there were other things to teach his son. So what if a teacher at school had got to him before his father. A teacher at school couldn't teach him how to be happy or what kind of decisions to make.

John recalled that it was on one of those fishing trips that Greg had first brought up being a doctor. John had coaxed Greg into talking about school and Greg brought up science class. He'd liked the subject and he was doing well. Best in the class actually. The best part of the class had been dissecting a frog. It was a dead frog, of course, but Greg remarked that it would've been cooler if it had been alive somehow. If they could look at the frog and see it and bring it back, stitch it up. What if he could fix whatever had killed the frog? Wouldn't it be cool? Then Greg had brought up all the other subjects: history, English, math, music.

Music was also one of Greg's strong points. John was amazed by how talented Greg had become in the two years he'd been gone. He remembered when Blythe signed him up for piano lessons with another Marine wife. Greg had been 7 at the time, they'd been in Okinawa, and there hadn't been much else to do. Greg was reluctant at first, claiming piano was for sissies and girls. But as he'd learned, he began to get more and more interested. John bought him records- both when he was at home and when he was deployed. He bought him Oscar Peterson, Ray Charles, Thelonius Monk, and the classics like Mozart, Beethoven, Rachmaniov. At 12, Greg's skill on the keys was evident every evening when he sat down at the bench while Blythe finished dinner. John would sit in his recliner, still in his flight suit, a glass of scotch and the newspaper. He'd look at the paper, sip his scotch, but his focus was on Greg's playing. The melodies Greg played for memory seemed to enhance the warmness of the living room lights and the smells emanating from the kitchen. Greg didn't seem to mind the audience, but John could tell that he wasn't playing for them.

Often, in fact, John would like awake late at night and hear softer melodies floating up the stairs. Sometimes, he wondered halfway down, edging his bare feet around the seventh stair that he knew was creaky. Oblivious to his audience, Greg was completely immersed in his playing. John would watch as he'd read the music, sometimes marking on it, then putting the pencil back in his mouth as he continued to play. Sometimes, he'd stop abruptly after a bad note, and a quiet "dammit" could be heard floating up the stairway. John would grimace: his son seemed to enjoy playing, but John wasn't sure if it was because it was pleasurable or if Greg was addicted to it in some way. It seemed like a quest for perfection. He was perfect at everything he tried. He didn't do anything half-way. It was all or nothing and Greg never failed.

If there was something Greg was failing at, John realized when his son was 17, it was relationships with girls. Greg seemed to have friends or at least guys he hung out with. Many of them were fellow lacrosse players or bandmates. But Greg rarely had girlfriends. The only reason John even knew about them was that Greg would go out on a weekend and, trying to be a conscientious parent, John would ask who he was going with. A week or two later, at home on a Saturday night, John would ask "What happened to Annie?" And Greg, looking down at first, chewing, then pausing would say: "Didn't work out." A shrug and silence.

John had actually considered the notion that his son might be gay. The thought of it sent chills down his spine- John was a Marine, it was the 70's, and the thought that his own son might bat for the other team didn't bode well on his conscience or for his career. But John resolved, that if this was the case, he'd deal with it. If it made Greg happy… But Greg seemed to like girls, wanted to date them, and Blythe had found what she referred to as "girly" magazines under Greg's bed. So it seemed, John thought, that the girls were just put off by him for some reason- or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe it was a personality issue. Maybe he'd learn to get along better in college- where he could be around his peers all the time.

But even in college, Greg never brought anyone home, never talked about the girls he saw. All the way through medical school and beyond, Greg, as far as John knew, might have been completely alone. And then one year, when Greg was 36 and John was long retired from the Marines, they'd gone to visit over Christmas and discovered Stacy Finnan.

Noting the feminine touch around the apartment, John knew instinctively that Stacy was living with Greg. He thought it was a good thing. Stacy seemed a perfect compliment to his son. As he watched them interact over Christmas dinner it was apparent: how they seemed to communicate with their eyes, how Stacy returned all of Greg's witty remarks with one twice as sarcastic. He didn't think he'd seen his son happier in 30 years. But as John thought back to the situation, shifting in his airplane seat, maybe he should've laid off- not bugged Greg about marriage and kids. He just couldn't help himself. Every time he was on the phone or saw Greg, he'd ask, "So, pop the question yet?" And Greg would roll his eyes, just as he'd done all those years ago on the fishing trip. "Dad…" John couldn't help it. The best decision of his life had been marrying Blythe. He wanted Greg to be just as happy and he had a feeling that Stacy was the one that could achieve this seemingly insurmountable goal. But in the end, it wasn't really John's fault at all. They hadn't seen it coming. It couldn't have been helped.

John squeezed Blythe's hand, looking at her for a moment and smiling. They'd been on the plane for two hours and they were on final approach, having buckled in and raised their seats. Blythe looked up at him, squeezed his hand in return. Blythe's eyes spoke of worry. John soothed them with his own unspoken communication.

Last time had been horrible. By the time that John and Blythe had gotten to Princeton, Greg was in surgery, having part of his leg removed. They'd been called at short notice by Dr. Cuddy- something with his leg, a clot, she'd said. It didn't look good. Greg was refusing the most logical treatment. They'd gotten there to find Stacy pacing in the waiting room. John had never imagined that Stacy Finnan would cry. She was a successful lawyer, had the wit and bearing of a wolverine. But there he stood, under the fluorescent lights of a too quiet waiting room, with Stacy's face buried in his shoulder, whispering, "I'm so sorry… I'm so sorry… I had to do it…"

John had hugged her back, told her that everything would be fine. Stacy said that Greg would never forgive her- he'd been so adamant. John told her his son wouldn't be so stupid. She'd done the right thing.

John was wrong- not about Stacy's action, but about Greg.

The plane was on the ground and the seats ahead of them were clearing. John and Blythe got to their feet and began gathering their carry-on bags. Blythe was quiet- she was always quiet. But John, still worried, wouldn't have minded some conversation.

"Did Wilson say anything else?" he asked for the second time since boarding the plane in Atlanta. Dr. Wilson- James- had called them that morning before they'd left for the airport. Greg had woken up, but he'd developed a bit of an infection. Things seemed under control though, and Greg was on the mend. Irritable, James had said. But then, what was new?

John liked Dr. Wilson from the moment he'd met him. He'd shown up at the hospital not long after John and Blythe all those years ago. "Conference," he'd said. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his tie askew. He'd taken a red eye out of Seattle, and then a cab from JFK. He looked like he hadn't slept. Greg made a good choice in a friend.

"He didn't say anything else, John," Blythe responded- calm, but stern. "I'm sure everything's fine."

"I can't believe…" John started.

Blythe frowned, an unspoken: _Not here_…

They gathered their bags from the carousel and moved towards the exit. The airport was packed, but they easily spotted James, looking a few years older but still with the boyish face. Blythe moved towards him first, a half smile as she hugged him. John shook his hand. "Nice to see you again," John said.

"I wish it was under different circumstances," James responded. John nodded.

"How is he?" Blythe asked as Wilson picked up the larger of her bags.

"He's…" Wilson paused, searching for a word, "doing okay. They irrigated the wound on his abdomen this morning, which made him a bit uncomfortable. But his kidney seems to be picking up speed again and his fever is down." John listened closely as he followed behind his wife and Wilson. "He's scheduled for some physiotherapy this afternoon to try to get him on his feet again."

"Isn't that a little soon?" Blythe asked, concerned.

"No," Wilson responded. "Not at all. It's best if he gets on his feet as soon as possible, and we would've done it sooner, but he was unconscious for over a day. There's been some concern…"

"What kind of concern?" John interrupted.

Wilson sighed, hefting Blythe's bag into the trunk of his car. "His leg's been giving him some problems," Wilson stated. "And between that and the surgical and the gunshot wounds, it's going to be difficult for him."

John lifted his suitcase into the trunk as well, keeping an eye on Wilson as he moved to the driver's side. John went to the front passenger's side as Blythe opened the door to the rear.

"What kind of problems?" John probed.

"He's been in some pain."

"But he's on medication…" Blythe asserted.

"It… may not be enough," Wilson responded.

John's eyes squinted, looked over at Wilson, who kept his eyes on the meandering loop through the parking garage. There was something else, John could tell. Wilson was tapping his fingers, there was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, his brows were folded.

"Uh huh," John grunted, deciding that Wilson would fold if pressed a little harder. John had retired as a Colonel. He'd had natural instincts as a supervisor and a disciplinarian. "Why don't you tell us what happened," he said, calm and collected, knowing he would get an answer.

Wilson gave, as suspected. "You might as well know…"

John listened to the story- how Greg had been in more pain, how he'd studied up on a new radical treatment, how he'd been taking morphine without anyone knowing. John sensed guilt in Wilson's voice. Wilson suspected something was wrong, but he was waiting for Greg to say something- anything. And it hadn't happened until after the shooting in the ER when Greg had requested the radical treatment approach.

John, while disappointed that his son had resorted to illegally using morphine, was glad that Greg had asked for the Ketamine. He wanted him to be happy. Ever since he'd had the infarction, Greg had stopped doing anything he enjoyed. First, there was Stacy. There was no doubt that he'd chased her away with guilt trips. John had overheard some of their conversations when Greg was still in the hospital.

Then there was Greg's self-loathing attitude towards the whole thing. It first happened two years afterwards, when Blythe and John, knowing their son was having a hard time, invited Greg on a trip to Europe. They'd invited Greg on trips before and he usually declined, giving some excuse about work or other plans he'd made. But this time, Greg didn't even go that far. He'd just muttered a snide "No thanks," and something about writing a book on cripples backpacking in the Alps. The remark didn't go unnoticed, but John had let it slide. Next time he spoke to him, John asked if he'd met anyone new. "Any hot chicks lately?" Greg held up his cane, "Oh yeah- they're all over the crippled guy." Eventually, it came up in every conversation. John would ask about Greg's life- outside work and Greg would never have much to say. What he did say usually involved the cripple card. John grew tired of it, often leaving the table whenever the situation got too tense. Last time, Greg had mentioned he'd gotten a new motorcycle. This wouldn't have bugged John much except that Greg had almost killed himself on one already. John cursed them as murder cycles after the accident- even though Greg had only had a broken leg and a few nice bruises. Greg knew John hated them. And when he mentioned the bike, he looked directly at John, throwing it in his face. It wasn't a simple, feel-good bike. It was bike built for too much speed. To John, it almost seemed like a threat of suicide and he'd left the table.

It didn't annoy him that Greg was disabled. It annoyed him that Greg flaunted it and used it as a sarcastic excuse for his misery. He didn't seem to want to be happy. "Why can't you just try?" John had asked once. "Because it hurts," Greg had replied simply. But if a radical new treatment would take away the pain, maybe Greg could try happiness again.


	12. Wrench

_I know it would be outrageous  
To come on all courageous  
And offer you my hand  
To pull you up on to dry land  
When all I got is sinking sand  
That trick ain't worth the time it buys  
I'm sick of hearing my own lies_

_David Gray_

_The Other Side_

Chapter 12: Wrench

House considered the notion, again, that physiotherapists were sadists. They were so good at causing and watching pain. Karl wasn't even flinching as he stood in front of House. His arms were placed on either side of House's, which were leaning on hands gripped tight around a metal walker. An i.v. drip of Keflex still hung next to him on the metal stand and, sure that he'd need it, House had maxed his dope on a rope before Karl had helped him to his feet.

House grimaced, put his left foot forward and slid his right to match it. Was the morphine acting at all? The cut in his stomach burned every second he was standing. He wanted to curl into a ball around it. He made a guess that this would have been easier prior to the little irrigation procedure he'd suffered through that morning. The new stitches pulled at his skin and he was sure that any second a wrong move would rip something and his guts, or at least a good amount of blood, would spill to the floor. Nausea bubbled up at the thought and House forced himself to focus on his task. Karl was still standing in front of him, still motioning forward.

House's weight came down on his right leg again and his pain shifted from his stomach southwards. He was gasping for a breath now, sweating from the exertion. His hands were getting slippery.

"Come on, Dr. House," Karl was saying, the little positive thinking do-gooder twerp. "Just one more step. Gotta get you moving again, get the blood flowing. It'll help you heal."

House knew this was truth, but he was struck by the irresistible impulse to whack Karl. It would be an excellent time to have his cane. A smooth wallop against Karl's blond head would relieve him of the annoying jerk for at least a few minutes. But House didn't have a cane. And he couldn't lift the walker. He couldn't even lift a hand from the walker. His stomach muscles had been cut apart, and the ability of his torso to maintain a vertical position instead rested solely on his hands, arms, and the walker underneath them. House thought, instead, that he might tell Karl just to shut the hell up. But he couldn't even manage that at the moment and he focused on remaining upright.

Plant, left foot up, down. Slide right leg forward. Gasp. Breathe. And then his vision was swimming. This can't be right. This much pain. He thought he'd maxed out the morphine just three minutes ago. It should be working, but everything was turning from hospital green to gray and black. Karl's face was getting fatter, expanding into a cartoon caricature. House's hands were slipping and he was loosing the control to bring them back against the plastic grips. Why was he so weak suddenly? Jesus Christ- was he falling? His knees were giving… He heard someone moan in the distance. And then someone was there behind him, lowering him into the wheelchair.

Moments passed as House got his breathing under control again. He gripped the arms of the chair, taking as big of a breath as he could muster without pulling his stitches. Fucking A. Freaking cripple. Fucking Karl, and his big fucking arms. Fuck the walker and the wheelchair. Fuck this whole session. He closed his eyes for a moment and then Karl was speaking.

"Dr. House," he said, quietly, and House could feel Karl's hand on his wrist, taking a pulse. House's eyes flipped open. "Almost lost you there. What happened?"

House had the same question and the only explanation he could come up with was that his blood pressure had slipped again or morphine was an inadequate drug. This whole thing had been a stupid idea in House's opinion, and he desperately wanted to take a crack at Karl's head. But all he could manage was a gasped "Don't know."

Karl moved to the corner of the room to retrieve a blood pressure monitor, wrapping it around House's arm. House sat silently, still trying to catch his breath and get through the pain. But it wasn't relenting. Every breath pulled at his gut. Every flinch triggered the cramp in his leg. Fumbling on his left side for the button, he clicked it to hear it's empty whine. Enough time had not passed between doses and the machine rejected House's request.

House's breathing calmed now that he was sitting, and he began thinking more clearly and realized, with consternation, that the morphine really should've helped. The fact that it wasn't meant one of two things: he was either developing a tolerance or someone had lowered the dosage. Since hadn't been in this much pain yesterday, he guessed that it was the latter. Damn Cuddy. Damn Wilson. They had to be responsible. "Cut it down, let's see how he does." House could imagine them plotting it out, wondering if he was addicted to morphine like he was addicted to the Vicodin.

House's hands had slipped to his thigh where they were clenching the muscle there. Without warning, Karl's hands were moving his own and replacing them.

"This is really tight, huh?" Karl asked him. House nodded silently. "And a little on the chilly side. Ever notice that before?"

"Yeah," House responded. "Comes and goes." At other times, his leg burned- like someone was sticking a hot poker to it. But it was the cold that he associated with the cramps.

Karl muttered a "Hmph," and kept kneading House's thigh through the thin hospital gown. Karl was gentler than House had been and obviously more trained. The muscles gave under his fingers, doing their best to relax again. When he looked at House's face, he could see the pain in the winces, but when House didn't complain, he continued. It was probably better than the cramps.

Karl was used to disability. He'd had patients with wounds like this before- though they seemed more rare than the patients who were simply missing a limb. Through the gown, Karl could feel the hard ridge of scar tissue extending the length of where the quadriceps should've been, and the surrounding clenched muscles. The relative size of House's legs was a good indicator that the injury was an old one. Muscles had atrophied. Others, like the ones of his upper body, seemed proportionally larger than his legs. What was certain was that this pain had taken a toll on his body- one that needed to be rectified. Karl knew that House was verging on 50. At that age, after such a long-standing disability, bodies began withering and often they didn't bounce back.

"Is he paying you for that?" a voice from the doorway asked. Wilson. Great. House looked up from staring at the wall to see him walking across the room, his white coat flapping behind him, smirking. House sighed, still focusing on breathing.

"He had some cramping. Leg feels cold to the touch," Karl said seriously, wiping the smirk from Wilson's face. Wilson came to stand next to Karl, looking down at House with concern. House scowled at the floor before turning it upwards to confront Wilson's mushy concern. If he hadn't lowered the damn meds…

"You lowered the morphine," House accused. "Take advantage of the sick guy while he's passed out."

"Cuddy thought it would be best…"

House didn't listen and cut in before Wilson could say more. "I've got an infection. I've got two fucking bullet holes in me, and I'm stitched up like a goddamn…" He paused, searching for a moment for a metaphor that wouldn't come. "And my leg's killing me and you _lowered_ my meds?"

Wilson shuffled his feet, looked down. His arms crossed.

"Your parents are here." House noted the abrupt subject change and put it on the backburner. Great. Just what he needed.

Normally, he wouldn't mind seeing his mother. And his father- if his father would stop telling him to buck up and enjoy life, how lucky he was, and all the other life-affirming bullshit he shot off, then House wouldn't mind seeing him either. House had a different version of happiness than his father. Ever since he'd gotten back from his first tour to Vietnam, John House had this philosophy that life was better if everything was out in the open. "I'm not taking anything to the grave, son. You gotta live your life as if it's your last day- and the last day shouldn't be a bad one." House figured that if he did that, he'd never get anywhere. Post-infarction, John tried to counsel Greg and tell him about all the guys he'd seen with no legs and arms- how he'd seen a buddy of his run the Marine Corps marathon two years after a mine had blown the bottom half of his leg off. Like it was supposed to help him somehow. House hated it and his father never shut up about it. But House particularly did not want to see either of his parents at the moment.

Though they'd disconnected the Foley prior to House's physio session, he still felt like the epitome of feebleness. He couldn't take two steps without nearly passing out. He hadn't showered in four days. His breath tasted like shit and the salt of his fever still lingered on his skin. He could smell himself and he wondered how Wilson and Karl were so close to him. And to see his parents like this?

"Where are they?" House asked, anger seeping into his voice.

Wilson was standing directly in front of House, looking down at him and intermittently at Karl. He hadn't expected House to figure out the morphine so quickly, but he had known House would be pissed about his parents. Wilson wondered which was worse. But then there was good news for House too. "In your room," Wilson responded.

"I don't have a room. I'm in ICU."

"Your fever's come down, your wounds are looking better. You've been transferred."

"Great," House muttered. On the one hand, ICU would have limited their visit. He would've had an excuse. On the other hand, no ICU meant less nurses, less ties, and more freedom. He'd utilize the freedom to its full capacity. "I can't see them like this."

"House, they're your parents."

It didn't matter to House that they were his parents and that they'd seen him at his worst. The very fact that they were his parents made the situation even shoddier. But he knew that there was no way to get around it. They'd come up to see him and he couldn't just send them back. There was a way, however, to delay the meeting for just a little while and to feel better at the same time.

"I did the physio and you," House motioned at Karl, "Promised at least a bath if not a shower." Karl pursed his lips and nodded and House turned to Wilson, pleased. "You get me something to wear other than this," he shook the material of the gown off his chest. "Tell them I decided to run a marathon. I'll see them in a few hours." Wilson was shaking his head, disbelieving. Karl was putting House's feet on the platforms and unlocking the wheels. "We'll talk about the meds later."

Karl wheeled House to the nurse's station and House found himself thinking about the hallucination again. Jack… Jack…. He still couldn't recall the man's last name despite having recalled the article detailing his wife's, Clarissa's, death. House had flashed by her face in the obituaries and had scanned back through the paper, looking at the article. The police had been involved, the scene had been dramatic. The press had gotten ahold of it. At the time, House had thought her face seemed familiar, but he'd read the story and finding nothing sparking his memory, he'd dismissed it. It was only in the hallucination that he'd put two and two together. They inevitably amounted to five. Jack and Clarissa. Christ.

Hallucination Wilson had been right. House had been so consumed by his leg that he'd overlooked everything physical. He'd only been interested in the puzzles. Now life had to expand beyond that. In order for the expansion to occur, for him to accept that life was more than solving the puzzle, he had to go through with the Ketamine. If he could reboot his pain center and, therefore, his mentality, he'd have a shot at living.

The wheelchair stopped moving and House looked up at the nurse's station. An aid, whose badge read "Paul," was talking to Karl. House couldn't hear their conversation- they were speaking in near whispers and House supposed that it was about him. Annoyed, he sighed and spoke. "Hate to interrupt you guys, but I _am_ a doctor. I know doctorly and nursely conversations when I see them. Either that, or you two are having a very illicit affair- especially considering you're both wearing wedding bands."

Paul's head tilted and Karl stopped talking. They moved to House's side, Paul watching for Karl's lead.

"I was telling him that you've had some pain, Dr. House. And that you're a jerk and to be careful."

Ah honesty. The best policy. House briefly thought of his father and pushed it away again. "Good," House nodded, slightly taken aback. "Now can I have that shower?"

Paul took it from there, pushing House into the bathroom and then into the shower stall. He'd said nothing so far, for which House was glad. He didn't want to have a conversation with a man who was about to help him shower.

"Can you move yourself to the bench?" Paul asked out of necessity, disconnecting the remaining iv.

House nodded and set to work. Paul moved the platforms holding his feet to the side and placed House's feet on the ground. Then, agonizingly slow with Paul supporting his elbow, House lifted himself and took the half step to the bench, lowering himself. House, breathing hard from exertion, watched as Paul moved the wheelchair away and turned on the water, checking its temperature as it warmed. He held the showerhead to House's hand. "Feel all right?"

"Yeah."

"Do you need help getting undressed?"

"No." House was already untying the knot at the side of the gown, peeling it away from him. Paul had disappeared for a moment, leaving the showerhead hanging on a rail. When he came back, he had scissors, a bottle of soap, and a washcloth. "You're a saint," House muttered in relief. Paul smirked and set the soap and washcloth within easy reach. House, holding the gown bunched at his waist, let Paul cut the bandages off.

The bandages were stuck thanks to the earlier irrigation and subsequent leakage. As Paul cut and pulled, House winced but remained silent. When the bandages around his abdomen were gone, Paul peeled the bandage off House's neck with relative ease. House began to get antsy watching the water cascade down the drain. If Paul would get on with it...

"Ready?"

Finally. House nodded and gave Paul the gown, looking away. Paul affixed the showerhead to point at his patient and shut the curtain, leaving House alone. House vaguely heard Paul call out something about letting him know when he wanted out or when he needed help.

House sat on the bench, eyes closed, and let the water pound him, washing away days of sick and sweat. Within minutes, the steam had built up, easing the cold cramp in his leg. Thank god. It wouldn't completely release, House knew, but the slightest recession was an immense relief.

Careful of the bullet wounds and the stitches, he washed. There was no rush and his wounds wouldn't allow quick movements. His first task was getting rid of the orange tinged remnants of the betadine. He couldn't reach his lower legs and instead reverted to squeezing the soap-filled cloth over the tops of his knees and letting the foam roll down. Finding it hard to lift his arms and wash his hair, he settled for dipping his head into the spray. He held it there interminably. The water felt so good, so calming, cleansing.


	13. Explanations

_Faith gone from your eyes  
Each word it flies  
Taking you further away  
And come that day  
There ain't no easy way to cry _

And as I watch you leave I stand  
Inside my house of straw  
And everywhere I go I find  
Things recollecting to my mind  
How right it all could be

_David Gray_

_Easy Way to Cry_

Chapter 13: Explanations

"Mr. and Mrs. House," Cuddy smiled nervously, walking around her desk. "It's good to see you again." She extended her hand to them both, shaking their hands in turn. They were well-dressed every time she saw them. House, apparently, had not gotten his style from them- starched shirts, pressed pants, military. Though Cuddy knew that they had to have spent at least four hours traveling, they looked like they'd just stepped out to Sunday brunch. Such a contradiction to House. Cuddy set her appraisals aside and looked to Wilson. He had followed the Houses into Cuddy's office and now stood behind them, catching her questioning glances.

Cuddy hadn't planned on this meeting and really wanted nothing to do with it. But she supposed it was inevitable, given the circumstances. As it happened, it was just a little sooner than expected. Wilson had tapped on her door and she'd waved them into the office, trying not to show surprise. They were supposed to be visiting their son, Cuddy knew. But seeing Wilson's glance, she also knew that House had somehow delayed the visit.

"We came as soon as we could," Mrs. House said. "Thank you for calling us."

Cuddy nodded, thinking back to the fact that she hadn't called until the following day. Everything had happened so quickly she hadn't had time to think until later. And then she'd been hesitant. She hadn't wanted to be in that position again- the position of calling his next of kin and having to apologize for their son's near death experience. "I'm sorry. I should've called sooner. It's been a little hectic around here."

Mr. House sat in the chair across from Cuddy, who was still standing. She sat, feeling that she should somehow be lower than him. Cuddy knew he was former military, ranking, and he still had the air of authority. In some demented way, it reminded her of House- the probing eyes, the upright stance, the seemingly omniscient point of view. If House had heard her thoughts, she was sure that she'd be shot. "So did you talk to him?" Cuddy asked the Houses, but looked to Wilson. He was shaking his head, blowing out a breath.

"House wanted to get cleaned up," Wilson responded for them. "He had a bit of a tough time at physio." She wanted to ask Wilson more questions about it, but let it go. "Speaking of which, I've… got an appointment." Cuddy nodded at him as he backed out of the office, shutting the door behind him.

"How is Greg?" Mrs. House asked, once Wilson was gone. "Is he really going to do this experimental treatment?"

Cuddy sighed. So this is what it was about. The experiment.

"We're still trying to work that out, Mrs. House. But I assure you, should your son choose to go through with this, he will get the best care we can offer."

"Its risky, right?" Mr. House suggested. "He could die…"

"The procedure is risky- but mostly because of the after effects." She paused, watching their reactions. "Ketamine is an hallucinogen. Infusing Greg," her tongue twitched with unfamiliar taste of his name on her lips "with enough to put him into a coma for five days will probably leave him with lingering side effects- hallucinations, dreams. But they should be manageable and they will probably disappear within a few weeks."

"Five day coma?" Mrs. House asked. "We didn't realize…"

Cuddy kicked herself. When they'd brought it up, she assumed Wilson had done all the necessary explaining.

"Are you sure this is the best option for him?" Mr. House asked. "Last time you said…"

Cuddy blanched for a moment, swallowing. That was a reference she hadn't expected to confront. She lifted her chin, resilient. "Last time, we were going against your son's wishes to save his life. He's asked for this treatment. It's his choice and I think we owe it to him to try it." Cuddy realized that she'd gone against her own advice, but she continued. "It's a five day coma. He'll be hooked up to life-support devices including a ventilator and nutrition lines, and he'll be very closely monitored. Studies have shown very promising results with this- albeit temporary."

Mr. House frowned, twiddled with this thumbs, tapped them together. "Temporary…"

Sighing again and imitating Mr. House's restless hands, Cuddy continued with her explanation. "Most participants had at least some of their pain return and required boosters within three months."

Mrs. House was nodding and reached for her husband's hand, holding it. Cuddy thought she saw tears forming at the corners of her eyes, but they disappeared when she turned back. "What else does he have left? What else can you do?"

Cuddy's shoulders slumped. She was defeated by a mother's question and concern over her child. What else could be done? And how much did they know had been done already? "How much did Dr. Wilson tell you?"

Mrs. House seemed to pick up on what Cuddy was asking and responded firmly. "We know about the morphine."

Cuddy, relieved that the burden was off of her chest, continued. "To be honest, there's not a lot we can do. We really didn't know what was going on with him. He's uh… he's not," she struggled for a moment. "Well," she settled. "You know your son better than anyone here so you know how he is. He tried the morphine on his own. Physical therapy might help, but hasn't been able to take much before and it'll be harder now. We don't know exactly how much morphine he was using, but given the level of pain that he's claimed to be experiencing, we don't have a lot of options that would enable him to continue working."

"It's gotten that bad?" Mrs. House asked.

Mr. House's head hung and Cuddy couldn't decipher the look on his face. It was either concern, embarrassment, or disappointment.

"In cases like your son's, it's not unusual for the pain to increase- often without any other reason than he's getting older. He may end up unable to put weight on it at all."

"He'd be in a wheelchair?" Mrs. House asked, verging on horrified.

Cuddy nodded. She didn't think that House would let it go that far. If it went that far… Cuddy chased the thought away. She wouldn't let it get that bad. "Possibly," she conceded.

Mr. House shifted, leaning forward, his brows furrowed. "How about amputation?" Considering what she knew of Mr. House, Cuddy imagined that he'd seen guys have their legs involuntarily removed. If they lived it was a replacement leg that was almost as good. But this wasn't a good option for House.

"In a situation like this, amputation probably would not solve the problem. The problem is not necessarily just his leg. It's his pain centers, his nerves. I'm sure you've heard of phantom limb pain?" Mr. House nodded and sighed. Cuddy repeated his gesture and sat back in her chair. "I think you should talk to your son about this."

"What about the man who did this? Shot him?" Mrs. House asked.

Cuddy straightened. This subject was more comfortable to her than House's leg.

"Your son treated this man's wife and in the course of treating her, he discovered some damaging information. The woman ended up committing suicide last week. Mr. Moriarty is being held without bail. His grand jury hearing is on the 21st."

Seemingly satisfied, much to Cuddy's relief, John House stood and lifted his wife by her elbow. "Thank you, Dr. Cuddy." His smile seemed sincere enough. "Is there a place we can get some coffee?"

Cuddy stood as well, a pen held tight between her hands as she smiled at them and directed them to the coffee machines in the waiting room of the clinic. Once the door closed behind them, she sat, her hands in front of her, unsettled. Maybe she told them too much, guessed too much when it came to the ultimate outcome. Maybe she hadn't told them enough. She hadn't, for instance, mentioned that she was convinced part of their son's pain was psychosomatic. The saline that she'd administered to him months before when he'd asked for morphine was a good, albeit not fool-proof, indicator. Based on that experience, anything they gave House was going to cure him if he believed it would. Needless to say, Cuddy was thankful the Houses were gone. The conversation left her mentally and emotionally drained. She needed a coffee, a big one.

* * *

Wilson looked at his watch, sitting on the freshly made bed in House's new, private room. When midmorning rounds had been completed, Cuddy had found House's improvement so satisfactory that she thought moving him to a private room would be best- free up some space and get House out of the spotlight. The room was just like all the others in its green walls and white tiled floors. But it differed just a bit from most in that it had four solid walls instead of a glass wall on one side. It was a bit smaller and it didn't have a private bathroom, but Wilson was sure that House wouldn't mind. He'd have privacy most of the time…. If he ever got to the room. 

House had been taking his damn bath for almost an hour. Dealing with House's parents was easier to deal with than House, but it put him in an awkward position. After dumping the Houses with Cuddy, Wilson had run back to his office to drag out the duffle he'd packed from House's apartment. Wilson pulled out fresh clothes- loose fitting sweats, a tee, boxers. And then he put the toothbrush and razor out where House could see them. Having done even more reconnaissance in preparation for House's convalescence, Wilson placed House's iPod and PSP on the desk next to the bed. It was the least he could do for him.

Wilson knew how much House hated being cooped up. Before landing the job at Princeton, he'd been fired three times from multiple hospitals around the country. Most of the administrators didn't like House's snooping. It was the first thing that really got him in trouble. In California, he'd been arrested for breaking into a home of a patient to look for toxins that might have caused kidney failure. The home, unbeknownst to House was equipped with a top of the line security system. The charges had been dropped and the patient was cured, but then House had been dropped from the ranks of the hospital staff. So he'd picked up and moved to Boston. It happened two more times and each time, he'd bounced back across the country. Wilson wasn't sure exactly what had happened at the other two hospitals, but when he asked about all the moving, House would always glean a little bit. "Open road, new places, new faces. Jimmy- you haven't lived until you've done it." Then he'd say something about having a job in one place was a bore. Might as well live inside a cubicle. When Wilson asked him when he'd get fired from Princeton: "Give it time… There's always something…"

As it turned out the infarction ended up terminating House's first career at Princeton. It also took with it most of House's desire to go anywhere. Going somewhere meant more pain. It meant stares, questions. There was conflict in this- House hated being cooped up. But he hated going out. There was no happy middle ground.

And House, having worked in a hospital for all of his adult life, hated being a patient in one. He despised the bitchy nurses. He hated the all-knowing glares of the doctors trying to treat him. The sympathetic glances of well-wishers and passers-by made him want to puke. And House hated being confined to a bed. Giving him some semblance of privacy, as well as something to take his mind off it, was the least Wilson could have done.

Wilson was trying to decipher the scoring system of ATV Offroad Fury when a nurses aid wheeled House back into the room. House's hair was still wet, the towel hung around his shoulders. He was in a fresh gown, and Wilson detected the slightest change in his mood. Calmer now. And he smelled like soap instead of the bitterness of fevered sweat and bedridden immobility.

Wilson put the game down, stood up. The aid looked at him, a question in his eyes, answered by Wilson's subtle "I'll take it from here."

"Feeling better?" he asked House once the aid had shut the door behind him.

House's eyes flicked to Wilson then looked at the clothes laying on the bed. "Yeah."

"Need some help with this stuff?" Wilson asked, referring to the clothes on the bed. He looked at his friend, sitting slumped in the chair, defeated.

House, after a moment's pause, nodded. "Bending over's a bitch." He said it into his lap, not looking at Wilson.

Wilson, relieved by the comment, smirked and grabbed House's boxers from the bed. The quicker, the easier. Just get it done. He's a patient and he needs help. "I'll pull them as far as your knees. Then we'll stand you up."

Wilson knelt down and pulled the shorts over House's long and narrow feet and up to his bony knees.

"Who called them?" House asked, calmly, looking now to the wall.

Wilson looked up from his task for a second, standing. "Can you push up out of the chair?" Wilson held him at his elbows, steadying him as House stood. House seethed, and Wilson grabbed the boxers and pulled them further up and into House's reach. He grabbed them eagerly, brushing Wilson's hands, flinching, and quickly pulling them up. "Cuddy called. She had to."

House was breathing hard and Wilson saw his finger move towards the morphine button. An electronic beep sounded as the machine released another dose. Wilson held onto his arm as House's breathing settled.

"What did you tell them?" House finally looked him in the eye. It was better now. The worst part was over.

"They know everything," Wilson responded.

House's eyes rolled. "Great." He eyed the bed, and Wilson saw the urgency in his glance.

"Think you can step over to the bed?" Wilson asked.

House nodded, and Wilson steadied him again at the elbow as House took the half step to the bed. Wilson lowered him down, gently. "What happened down there?" Wilson asked, referring to the physio room.

House glared at him a second before responding. The shower seemed to have calmed him down and he was less abrupt, but still demanded answers. "Why did you lower the morphine?"

"We'd do it with any patient that was getting better," Wilson responded, confident in his decision. "You've had four days since the surgery, the infection's under control. Your intestines and stomach have begun picking up speed again. You _are_ getting better, House."

House sat on the bed, eyes cast downward and his hands braced on the mattress beside him. He moved them to pull the knot on the side of the robe, and let it fall, baring his torso. "I need the morphine," he admitted, his voice softer than Wilson had heard him speak in a long time. "Between this," he motioned to the thick bandages around his abdomen, "and this," his hand rubbed at the scar on his leg. The sentence fell off and House shook his head. "Couldn't take two steps…"

Wilson peeled his eyes away from House's leg. He'd seen it before- internally via the MRI, externally when House was initially recovering all those years ago. But it was still a shock. Sunken muscle- much more so than he'd last seen- and the scar still a macabre impression on pale, hairless skin. He swallowed once, grabbed the sweatpants from the bed, and moved to pull them onto House's feet.

"This…. sucks," House mumbled, looking up at the ceiling.

Wilson nodded as the pants reached House's knees. He helped him to stand again to pull them the rest of the way up. "Yeah," he returned. "But it'll get better." As a testament to the prophecy, Wilson opened the PCA with his key and reprogrammed the machine, boosting the dosage again.

* * *

She was always concerned about Greg, but at the same time confident in his ability to take care of himself. This, however, was unexpected. Again. He looked so tired, pale, undernourished. The stark white bandage stood out against the skin of his neck, a tinge of red in the center, and a deep red and purple bruise extending away from it. Blythe could make out the outline of the bandages swathing her son's stomach beneath the black t-shirt. An i.v. ran out of the top of Greg's elbow and up to a bag hanging above the bed. Another ran from his hand to a box. But Greg smiled at her when she entered the room, John walking a step behind. 

Greg had had his fair share of accidents growing up. He never made a big deal of them and neither did Blythe. She always let her son stand for himself, figure things out himself, and live the way he wanted as long as he was willing to accept the consequences. Once, when he was ten, he'd come home holding his hand and gone straight to his room. Blythe knew something was wrong- he'd barely looked at her as he'd walked past. He didn't come down for a few hours, but then she supposed that he got hungry. He came down, holding his hand to his chest and asking what was for dinner. Blythe made a deal with him: she'd take him out if he'd show her the hand. After Greg's hand was x-rayed and casted at the base hospital, she'd made good on her deal. They went to Greg's favorite hamburger joint and had huge cheeseburgers and chocolate milkshakes. Blythe House was neither overbearing nor overprotective and Blythe believed that her son had turned out pretty well, despite his flaws.

"Mom," Greg smiled, a genuine smile, but full of apprehension. He was sitting up against the raised head of the bed, his sweatpants-clad legs sprawled out in front of him. A heating pad rested on his right thigh. "Thanks for coming." Greg's eyes shifted momentarily to John, still standing near the doorway.

"We came as soon as we heard," Blythe assured him. "How are you feeling?"

Greg nodded. "I'm… okay," he replied, his voice rising at the end of the phrase. "Getting better."

Blythe frowned as John stepped forward and shut the door behind him carefully. "Wilson told us what happened."

"Yeah. Thank god he was a bad shot, huh?"

Blythe smiled, the slightest tinge of pity in her eyes, and touched Greg on the shoulder, rubbing him there for a moment before speaking. His shoulder was firm, muscled, but slightly bony. "And this treatment you requested…"

Greg sighed. "Yeah." His eyes shifted to John. "I don't know why I haven't done it before. Studies are pretty promising." Greg's breath hitched and Blythe saw his finger move for a moment before she heard the beep. He sighed, relaxed again after a half second of tension. Blythe, too, relaxed.

Despite her unwillingness to be overprotective, Greg's pain was also Blythe's. It had always been difficult to watch him suffer- no matter if had been a scrape, a broken bone- major surgery. It had been particularly difficult to watch him after he'd lost part of his leg- when they thought he'd get better, but nothing happened. He went from the crutches to the cane relatively quickly. He couldn't walk well with the cane at first, but then he'd improved and Blythe had desperately hoped that he wouldn't need it forever. He seemed to be getting better, but then it stopped. Dead end. Blythe could see more and more disappointment written across his features every time she saw him. Before, he talked about the running he'd been doing- how fast he'd run his last marathon. Or the lacrosse league he'd picked up. Even work. But after the infarction, he'd been quiet. He stayed quiet- waiting for the probing questions that John inevitably threw at him.

Blythe knew that John meant well. They often talked about it when Greg wasn't around. John couldn't see why Greg couldn't find something else to make him happy, why he had to be so stuck in his ways. Why couldn't he just realize that he was lucky to be alive and get on with life? Greg was a nostalgic person. It couldn't be helped. He wanted what he had before and he couldn't help thinking about the "what if's." He couldn't help being reminded of what he used to be able to do.

"Are you sure it's safe?" Blythe sat down on the bed and Greg winced a bit as he shifted to accommodate.

"Mom…"

"Blythe, he knows what he's doing…" John interjected. Greg's eyes flicked to John, surprised. He hadn't expected his father to protect his decision. "Right, Greg?"

Greg was muted for a moment, but got his wits underneath him again and responded: "Yeah. It's safe." Greg moved a hand to his stomach, touching the outline of the bandages there as he lay his head back on the pillows. "How long are you staying?" he asked. "_Where_ are you staying?"

"We'll stay as long as you need us to. And Wilson has a spare bedroom," Blythe responded, knowing that "need" was automatically tied to "want." Greg didn't need them. And she knew that he wasn't comfortable sharing his discomfort. They hadn't been able to find a hotel on short notice and Wilson had offered them a room.

"And he's a great cook," John added.

"Watch out for the stuffed peppers. I almost had to get my stomach pumped," Greg retorted. John and Blythe both smirked. Greg had never liked peppers.

"Do you need anything?" Blythe asked. "Books? Crosswords? Anything?"

"I'd kill for a Reuben," Greg returned. "The jello diet is getting old."

Blythe moved her hand and gave a light pat on his, careful not to disturb the needle there. "As soon as your doctor says it's okay, I'll personally deliver it. Anything else?"

Greg shook his head. "No, thanks. I'm fine. Really. Got a tv now- and toys." His eyes motioned at the iPod and video game on the nightstand. Greg always liked his distractions. Always had to be doing something with his hands if he was sitting down somewhere. He'd been a nailbiter at first. Blythe weaned him off of his nails by giving him rubberbands, trinkets, anything to keep his hands busy. She supposed the video game was an extension of her influence. "I hate to push you guys out," Greg started.

"But you need your rest," Blythe said, watching him as he pushed the button for the morphine again, the beep seemingly quieter this time- less abrupt. "You still have John's cell phone number?"

When Greg mentioned that he had it in his own cell phone, which, he guessed, was still in the office, John wrote it on the notepad and placed it on the desk next to the iPod. "Or you can reach us at Wilson's. We'll be by to see you tomorrow."

Blythe kissed Greg on his forehead, careful to avoid his wounds and then went to John, winding her fingers through his as they walked from the ward.

"He seems changed, doesn't he?" Blythe asked.

"He seems the same," John responded, squeezing her hand. "Maybe he's just growing up…" John smiled down at Blythe.

Blythe slapped her husband on the shoulder, playfully scolding him.


	14. Forward Momentum

**Two more posts tomorrow, two on Monday and one last big one on Tuesday. And this sucker will be done. Thanks to reviewers (again). **

_confusion wanders in  
strides the evening like a king  
chaos and turmoil prevail  
bedlam reigns, hope is drowned  
ah but strangely we settle down  
resigned to the sinking ship on which we sail_

_It's all over bar the shoutin'  
one things for sure_

_David Gray_

_It's All Over_

Chapter 14: Forward Momentum

"He's having some cramps, I upped his morphine again." Wilson leaned against the desk in Cuddy's office, facing the door. "I think.. we were wrong."

Cuddy sighed, walking back towards her desk and around it to face Wilson. She'd followed Wilson there after he'd run into her in the hallway outside House's new room. House's parents were there, he'd said: leave them alone, and we have to talk.

"We would have lowered it in any other patient. The longer he's on it…."

"He isn't any other patient."

"How much pain is he in?" Cuddy sat, abruptly in her chair, her eyes probing. Wilson stepped back, crossed his arms.

"From what I got from his physiotherapist, he almost passed out."

"He's had surgery, been confined to bed. It was his BP." She started in on a stack of mail, ripping open envelope after envelope, barely looking at the contents.

"Wasn't his BP. Karl checked it right afterwards."

"I think it's time… He's getting better, his temp's down, he's eating semi-solids…." Wilson was pacing. Cuddy wasn't watching. Her eyes were constrained to the ceiling, thinking back to her conversation with the Houses. She'd made a decision there- it was House's choice; they shouldn't refuse it. Wilson continued, oblivious to her non-response. "If he does this, if it works, there won't be anymore Vicodin. And if he has an addiction, the Ketamine will counteract it…."

Wilson stopped. He'd caught Cuddy nodding, giving into his requests. There was a moment of silence before the phone on Cuddy's desk began ringing. It startled both of them and Cuddy picked it up, her surprise turning to annoyance. "This is Dr. Cuddy."

Wilson sat as Cuddy took the call, her voice tinged with annoyance. "No- Dr. House is recuperating and is not available for interviews…" Wilson recollected the day of the shooting- the news cameras that eventually shown up, the reporters, photographers. Fortunately for Wilson, they weren't interested in Oncology. They were, however, interested in Cuddy and, of course, House. "I'll pass it along," Cuddy smiled coyly, tapping a pen. Wilson assumed that whoever was calling was leaving a phone number, but Cuddy wasn't writing anything down. She hung up the phone, crossing her arms on the desk, resigned. "You really think we should do this now?"

"Day after tomorrow."

A hand lifted, flapped back to the desk. "Okay… day after tomorrow."

* * *

Cameron fidgeted with the dog-eared Journal of Pain Management she was shifting through. She'd been there, sitting in the chair next to House's bed, for close to an hour. She'd put water in the flowers that she had brought to the ICU days before. Someone had transferred them to House's room. She'd read his chart, checked the level of his i.v. fluids. 

It was midmorning and House was still asleep, on his back, snoring. He'd thrown off the covers at some point during the night and lie there in his sweats and t-shirt, one arm across his chest.

Wilson had passed the journal article to her after she'd asked him about the Ketamine. It smelled like cigars and was tinged with what she assumed were splotches of spilled whiskey, but she read it anyway. She'd gotten half way through that morning before she'd called Wilson for an update. "Out of ICU," he'd said calmly. "He's fine." Cameron had made up her mind then that she'd see him. Someone had to care….

House's snores suddenly stopped, and his breath caught. Cameron looked over, saw his mouth move, his eyes creasing. He reached down towards railing, his hand seeking. Knowing what he wanted, Cameron picked up the PCA control and wrapped it in his fingers. The machine beeped as he pressed the button and House opened his eyes.

"Hey," Cameron, smiling. House blinked, rubbed his chest through the t-shirt.

"What time is it?"

"Eleven."

"I slept through rounds?"

"They didn't want to disturb you," Cameron said, standing and reaching for the pitcher of water on the nightstand. She poured a class, handed it to her boss. "How are you feeling?"

House, eyeing the water and Cameron, not sure how to react to his subordinate's care, settled on sarcasm. "Couldn't you find something better to say? So… predictable…"

Cameron, expecting the retort, sat back down. "I heard you were out of ICU…"

"I'm a free man," House said, sipping the water through the straw, handing it back to Cameron. He was keeping responses minimal. Normally, he didn't have much to say to her and this wasn't any different. They had no cases to argue over and without the cases, they had nothing in common and he was most definitely not going to talk about the shooting or the Ketamine he'd requested. It would probably make her cry and it would make him, at best, uncomfortable. And then there was the fact that he had to take a leak and Cameron was the last person on his list to help him to the bathroom. "So seriously-what are you doing here?" he asked. "Haven't you got a life?"

Cameron wasn't sure how to react, so she, too went back to sarcasm. It was something they all learned in medical school- it was a normal self-protective measure. "I came here to collect. You ruined a good pair of shoes." It was sarcastic truth- the liquefied remains of House's lunch had coated Cameron's Kenneth Coles. She'd taken a stack of paper towels to them afterwards, but somehow, House had managed to projectile vomit just right- so that some had seeped into the interior of the shoe, staining the insole. It was something she dealt with as a doctor; the vomit wasn't the part that bothered her. If it had been anyone else, she would have washed it off in the locker room shower and cleaned the shoes for another day's use. But this was different: Cameron had scrubbed at the shoes and the stains wouldn't come out. The following morning, she'd looked at them and the image of House injured, House sick, House's blood, came flooding back. Cameron dropped the shoes into a plastic bag and into the dumpster.

"It's a hospital. Never wear nice shoes to a hospital. Puke is inevitable." House shifted uncomfortably again. He was on a constant regime of fluid nutrients and he hadn't peed in over 12 hours. While he was thankful the Foley was gone, it would've made this part easier. He grimaced, twisting the sheet in his hands. The merely uncomfortable sensation was quickly becoming irresistible. "Listen, do me a favor and get me a nurse…"

Cameron's eyes widened and she stood, gripping the rails of the bed. "Why? Are you okay? If you're…"

"I'm fine." House's response, typical, harsh. "But if you don't get a nurse in here, things are going to get very wet, very quickly."

"Oh," Cameron's mouth opened in a circle, suddenly understanding. "I'll be right back."

Really, Cameron thought to herself as she grabbed the journal and strode from the room to the nurse's station, what the hell had she been thinking? That he would wake up grateful to her presence? Thank her, hug her, laugh with her, ask her for help? She'd spent the last two days on edge, frantically running between things she'd been meaning to do for months. Dentist appointment, her brother's birthday gift (two months late and lame), flowers for Brian's grave, organize her file cabinet- out with the old, re-file the new. In the evenings, she'd dredged up every article she could find on Ketamine and chronic pain. She'd called Wilson both days and then today- House was out of ICU. "Doing better," he'd said. "Still some pain. He's okay." She'd immediately gotten dressed and headed over without a second thought about what would actually happen. She did it often- she said and did things before considering the consequences.

Once, House had mentioned that people say anything when they think they're dying. And the question was so eager on her tongue. She'd been embarrassed the seconds afterwards. "What did you say when you thought you were dying?" He'd had his back to her then and his head had dropped, sighing. He hadn't answered the question, he never did.

"302 needs some help."

The nurse looked up at her, questioning brows, annoyance evident, despite Cameron's civilian clothes. "We're really busy…"

Cameron interrupted, annoyed. "And he's my boss. I don't think I want to help him with this…" Neither did the nurse.

The nurse helped anyway, pushing an urgent House into the nearest bathroom. Cameron had watched him, seeing the grimace on his face as he told the nurse to "go away," and pushing himself, slowly, the rest of the way into the bathroom. She heard the click of the lock and walked back to the waiting room in front of the nurse's desk.

She wasn't sure what she was waiting for. House didn't seem to have anything to say to her. And she really didn't have much in the way of substance to say to him. "I'm sorry?" It didn't sound right- and what was she sorry for? "Do you need anything?" But judging by the iPod, game, and stack of magazines on the desk, he was taken care of in that regard too. Then what? Was she bored? Concerned? What did she want to hear? Cameron wasn't sure of it herself and decided that it was just her nature. She cared. Maybe too much.

She was thinking about this care, the care of her late husband, when she saw Mr. and Mrs. House emerge from the elevators. Mrs. House was carrying a vase of flowers and laughing to her husband. The resemblance was unmistakable. House looked like his father- a long face, piercing eyes. His mother was different though. There was something that Cameron couldn't place. They looked nice enough, like House had said. They obviously cared about him. So what if the senior House couldn't tell a lie. House indulged himself in picking apart everyone's lies. It almost seemed like a hobby. Cameron stood, walking towards the Houses. Now she had a purpose.

"Mr. and Mrs. House…" she started. Then she relieved them of the burden of memory. "I'm Allison Cameron- we met a few months ago? I work with your son."


	15. Getting it on Paper

_As he begins to raise his voice  
You lower yours and grant him one last choice  
Drive until you lose the road  
Or break with the ones you've followed  
He will do one of two things  
He will admit to everything  
Or he'll say he's just not the same_

_How to Save a Life_

_The Fray_

Chapter 15: Getting it On Paper

Detectives Nate O'Brian and Cynthia Jones rode the elevator in silence. Dr. Cuddy had called them that morning, telling them that their victim had been transferred to a private room. "He's out of ICU," she'd said. "If you need to see him, today would be best." She hadn't offered any other explanation. Why not tomorrow? Why not next week? It wasn't as if they didn't have better things to do- _unsolved _crimes, for instance. They had someone in custody for this one- and multiple eyewitnesses left no doubt as to what had happened. But procedure dictated that this was a necessity- to get the victim's statement.

The information they'd gotten from other witnesses indicated that Dr. House was going to be a daunting interviewee, and neither of the detectives looked forward to interviewing him. And there was the fact that he was still a patient- it often made for an awkward situation. O'Brian hated hospitals for the smell of them. Every time Jones entered one, she was reminded of her younger sister's death from cancer.

Jones stepped out of the elevator ahead of her partner, slinging her briefcase holding the file and statement forms behind her. O'Brian followed her to the room. They'd made a plan for the interview earlier, so that there would be no question about who would lead. Jones would do the questioning; House would be more likely to answer to a female presence in the room. The men that Jones and O'Brian had interviewed, Drs. Foreman and Chase, had seemed detached and unknowledgeable about their boss. Their reactions had been full of contempt, albeit with a healthy dose of respect. But they had no insight into who he was, what he was. Cameron, on the other hand, had blatantly shown her appreciation, admiration, and understanding of his character. Brilliant, she'd said. But she'd obviously cared about him, known some of his weaknesses, even gone on a date. And Dr. Cuddy had given a similar impression to O'Brian. She obviously wasn't his biggest fan, but she knew him, protected him.

So it was Jones that knocked on the door frame to the hospital room and entered first, earning an upwards glance from House, who was busy playing his PSP. Jones fought the urge to roll her eyes: another video game junkie. Grown men, including her own husband, couldn't seem to resist the toys. House didn't bother looking up from the game, signaling obsession, a prior warning, or just a lack of surprise. Jones and O'Brian weren't hard to figure out- their guns bulged beneath their coats, badges flashed on their belt loops. House was impressed by neither.

"Dr. House," O'Brian nudged, shutting the door behind him. He took in House's appearance. Though he was dressed in a t-shirt and sweats, his face was pale and he thought he could detect the slightest tremble in his hands. The packing on House's stomach also stood out, an obvious outcropping on the black tee. And the bandage on his neck was too obvious not to notice.

"I assume," House paused, pushing a button in rapid succession, "that you're the detectives working my case."

Jones stepped in front of House, looking down at him. His eyes squinted in concentration over his game, his fingers moving. She took in the iv on top of his hand, the mechanical apparatus nestled at the rail of the bed.

"Dr. House, my name is Cynthia Jones, I'm a detective with the Princeton Borough Police. This is my partner, Nate O'Brian."

House looked at the two of them briefly before returning to his game. "And you're here…." He paused, concentrating for a moment before continuing. "To get my side of the story?"

O'Brian was pulling a chair from the side of the room, taking out his notebook. Jones remained standing, still trying to work out the best angle of approach. Perpetrators weren't the only ones who needed a plan of attack. Victims, too, were vital in the legal process. Victims, too, could be reluctant and prone to misrepresent or forget certain vital details. A skilled interrogator could work all the angles. O'Brian and Jones, with a combined twenty one years in the position of investigator, were trained, experienced. However, both of them doubted that they had ever interviewed someone quite like Dr. House.

O'Brian had run an NCIC check on House before the interview and it had come up clean. But a check through Princeton records had come up with multiple charges- though no convictions. Simple assaults- bar fights, disgruntled patients claiming that he had gone against their wishes, a breaking and entering charge from 1998: all dropped. Dr. House had secrets of his own, O'Brian was sure of it. He was a man that tested the limits, pushed them whenever he had the chance. It was a wonder he wasn't either in jail or dead. It was even more amazing that he was a respected doctor in a respected hospital.

He'd discussed this with Jones in the car ride on the way over- how the guy probably deserved both of the bullets. Someone should have done it sooner. Jones had shaken her head, said "Just let me lead, okay?"

So he sat, and let her have a go. House was still playing the game, concentrated it seemed, on everything but answering questions. Obviously, the game was much more important than an attempted murder. O'Brian was annoyed, and thankful that Jones was leading.

Jones seemed to take this in stride, sidling up to House. "I know you're in a lot of pain right now, sir, but we'd like to get your statement. We need it so we can put this guy away."

"You have at least 3 eyewitnesses to what happened. I was there for…" House paused, clicking the button frantically again. He sighed, defeated, and put the game down on the bed, looking up to Jones. "I wasn't around for very long. Didn't see much, actually."

Jones pulled up a chair, observing House. He seemed complacent, unbothered that he had been assaulted. She knew his type, at least. Her old partner, John, had been the same way. John had been shot when he was on the force in New York. He transferred to Princeton two years afterwards, claiming he wanted to get out of the city. He was okay during the day- always sarcastic, always fine. But there had been nights when Jones and John were doing stakeouts. John would drift off after midnight, and within an hour, he would be thrashing on the seat, yelling. Jones wondered if he ever slept through. She knew he drank. It was hard to miss when he came in with sunglasses, stinking of the night before. It was the drinking, eventually, that screwed him over. He'd gotten a DUI, ordered to counseling, and reduced to an administrative position. He'd retired early- at 47. Last she'd heard, he was living with his daughter in Massachusetts. So Jones knew the type, it was just that she'd never had to deal with a victim like this.

"Why don't you tell us what happened?" she probed, taking the other chair in the room. She trusted O'Brian to take the notes. Notes would distract House from his answers. Best to let the third party take them.

"Guy comes into room, shoots me. Want a description?" House's lips pursed, turning to a frown. "As much as I can recall- greasy, wearing a suit, heavy shadow…"

House pushed his head back into the pillow. An hour beforehand, his parents and Cameron had been interrupted by a visit from Cuddy. It was one of the only times he'd been grateful for Cuddy's intrusion. She'd ushered Cameron and his parents out of the room, telling them that she needed to check House's dressings. House had been surprised (and grateful) when Cameron didn't balk and claim her doctorhood.

The fact that his parents and Cameron had come into the room together had been a very bad sign. God knew what they'd talked about. Little Greggie when he was five, maybe. Daddy's fun time in the Marines, ten year old Greggie's pet turtle Lawrence. Good god, the things that his mother could have said. The honesty of his father. House wondered whether his father had gotten any info out of Cameron. If his father knew that he'd gone on a date with Cameron, he'd never hear the end of it. "Greg, she's a babe, but she's half your age…" He could hear it now, the disdain for House's actions. His father's disparagement rang in his head too often. It prevented him, sometimes, from acting. Other times, he rebelled against it- doing exactly what his father told him to avoid: Cheating off of a fellow student, provoking the biggest guy in the bar just so he could hit him second, calling a hooker at midnight.

Cuddy had been more gentle with him that usual, even to the point of apologizing for lowering the morphine before he was ready. "Are you really ready for the ketamine?" she'd asked, as she (instead of a nurse) had cut through the bandages on his stomach. It was just the two of them then and he'd felt a little uncomfortable with her, exposed.

He'd told her that he was more than willing.

After the physio the previous day, he'd been certain. He'd mentioned it to Wilson before his parents came into the room. Obviously Wilson had mentioned it to Cuddy, because she was there, saying that she'd have the consent forms drawn up. As she probed the wound on his stomach, she'd told him the police were on their way to interview him. And now here they were.

"Did he say anything?" Jones queried.

House's lips twisted, remembering. "Guy had a shoddy memory- couldn't remember which doctor to shoot."

Jones tried to keep her irritation at bay. Straight answers were not Dr. House's strength. Victims of abuse reacted in a similar way- they didn't want their loved abusers going to jail or retaliating against them. But Dr. House had no excuse. He barely knew his attacker. He was just being an ass. Or he was redirecting his anger.

"What did he say?"

"Not much. Just that he had been a patient. Then the fact that he was holding a gun at me kinda took the focus off of anything else he said."

Sarcasm was evident in the doctor's voice and his lips curled, his brow angry. It was easy to see why his co-workers both admired and hated him. His intelligence and wit seemed keen, but his attitude, his quick judgments, more than likely turned away potential allies.

"Did he threaten you- before or during the event?"

House's head shook minimally. He was still frowning. "No. Seemed like he knew what he was there to do. Didn't waste much time."

"How long was he in the room before he pulled out the gun?"

"I wasn't counting the seconds." Jones look of annoyance didn't go unnoticed and House rolled his eyes, giving into the question. "A minute- maybe less."

"Was he acting odd in any way? Screaming? Crying?"

"He was a perfect stoic."

"Dr. House," Jones started, looking to O'Brian. "We're going to need to take this information down in a statement. To say House was reluctant would've been an understatement. At first he just frowned, then he complained: "Write some notes- isn't that good enough?" Then Jones had watched as he'd tapped the button nestled into his fist, a settled look coming over his features as gave his structured statement. O'Brian took it down and handed it over afterwards for House to sign. They left their cards on the night table. "If you have anything else to add, don't hesitate to call," Jones muttered on her way out. She shut the door behind her.


	16. Compulsive Risk Taking Behavior

_Let me go I'm only letting you down  
I 've got nothing to say to you now  
I lose the feelings that are weighing me down  
When I'm safe_

_Ryan Adams_

_Sweet Illusion_

Chapter 16: Compulsive Risk Taking Behavior

Stacy Warner knew when and where to take risks- where to throw in a comment that would be objected to by the opposing attorney, thrown out by the judge, considered by the jury. When to keep her mouth shut. Years of training and experience had taught her when to go at a witness with vague ideas and when to just stick to the concrete details. It was all a matter of psychology, of reading personality and events. It made her a great lawyer.

With Greg House, her risk taking was more aberrant, uncontrollable. She'd dated him when he'd asked. Why not? Even when she'd hated him, she'd gone back for a second date and moved in the following week. It was the riskiest thing she'd ever done. But it worked so well, for so long, she convinced herself. It was a good risk. Taking part of his leg, however, when he'd so adamantly refused it while conscious, was a poor risk. Sleeping with him while married to Mark- another very _poor_ risk, she admitted to herself. Stacy supposed she'd been lucky that Mark was so busy with physio at the time or else surely he would have noticed. Risks made Stacy very bad when it concerned her relationship with Greg House. Her bad behavior was about to occur now, as she as stared at the phone on her desk, on the numbers she knew by heart.

It was early evening and her assistant and colleagues had left for the day. She was almost alone in the office and she watched, fingers tapping on the mahogany desktop, as the cleaning lady flipped off the lights and dragged her supplies out with her. There, she was the last now. The only office with a light on. Despite this, she stood and shut the door, closing herself off to any potential intruders. She had to do this. She was on her third nearly sleepless night and it was beginning to affect her ability to concentrate on her cases, and on Mark. But Mark had conferences tonight. And Stacy had to know.

So she picked up the phone again, sighed, put it to her chest. Dammit. It was just a call. Just a check-up. It really wasn't a risk at all- it was just seeing how an old friend was doing. Could anyone blame her for that? But then again, this was Greg House, the man she'd taken precautions to avoid for five years because she knew he was her weakness, her Achilles Heel.

She'd heard nothing from Wilson in days. Either he hadn't found a reason to call her or he'd forgotten her request. The first time she'd called, she hadn't thought twice. Of course, she'd been alone, working from home and watching the news at lunch. As soon as she'd seen the story about a doctor being shot at Princeton, she'd gotten on the phone, dialing Wilson's pager directly. He'd called her back within minutes, but he'd been flustered, hurried, and he hadn't told her much- just that Greg had been shot, that it was serious, that he was in surgery. Stacy had been on pins and needles, and had gotten halfway out the door with only her purse and keys before she stopped herself. Mark would be home in a few hours. He'd wonder where she'd gone. He still needed her.

When Mark came home, Stacy had moved the furniture in the living room, cleaned every room in the house, and was rushing around the kitchen preparing dinner. She'd brushed by Mark, giving him a quick kiss on the lips, and gone to take the salmon out of the oven. Mark was a little concerned, frowning at his wife's apparent overactivity. "I got bored with work. And I wanted to do something special for you," she'd commented. What could he say to that? But then he'd remembered the news on the way home and asked her: "Did you hear about the shooting?"

Stacy, her back to him, winced, wiped it off, and turned, frowning. "Shooting?" Feigned ignorance, followed by feigned recollection. "Oh- yeah… I heard. The one at Princeton…"

Mark was limping towards the bedroom, divesting himself of his wallet and keys, getting comfortable. She had a moment alone while he questioned her as he moved down the hall. "Did you call anyone? See what happened?"

'No," Stacy responded, simply. She focused back at dinner, set the table, put the peas in the bowl, the salmon on the serving dish inherited from her mother. She'd caught Greg sliding down the hill on it once. It had snowed- just two inches. When she drove by the sled hill, she'd spotted one person taller and bigger than the rest, sliding much faster and lower to the ground than most of the kids. She'd nearly killed him. Instead, she'd taken the serving dish and handed him the cover to their toilet seat. "Cheaper to replace," she'd said, and joined him.

Mark came back, collapsed into his chair with a groan. "Long day today," he muttered, but then continued. "You don't know which doctor was shot? Sure it wasn't someone you know? Maybe your old boyfriend finally got what's coming to him."

Stacy swallowed the lump in her throat and responded peacefully, masking the anger over Mark's comment. He couldn't know. "I haven't worked there full time in years, honey. The staff is constantly turning over."

Mark's brows rose at her apparently nonchalant attitude. Stacy felt like a bad actress, so she fluttered, table settings, bread, drinks. She asked him about his day, moving quickly through the kitchen, hiding the tremble in her hands with more rapid movements, like she'd had too much caffeine.

She'd laid in bed that night, acting out the appearance of sleep.

The following morning, she'd gone straight to the office and shut her door behind her. It was something everyone did. A busy, sensitive case was worthy of a shut door. Nothing unusual here. But she hadn't been working the case. She'd called Wilson again.

"Unconscious," he'd said. "Critical." It was nothing new, nothing unexpected. She sighed with disappointment that Wilson could decipher from a hundred miles away. "Surgery went well."

Stacy shut her eyes, fingered the cross at her neck. "Wilson… really…" she had trouble getting the words out. "How bad is it?"

Wilson's sigh contained enough concern that she'd wanted to leave again. Grab her keys and go. She could say that it was a family emergency. "Should I…" the phrase was started, but she retracted. "Call me," she stated instead. "If anything changes…"

But he hadn't called. Stacy was sure that no call meant that Greg had either gotten better or that he hadn't gotten worse. Wilson had been so reluctant to tell her anything. He hadn't even told her where he'd been shot. He could've been shot in the head, for all she knew. He was being distant for a reason and Stacy guessed, correctly, that it was because of the dangerous nature of her relationship with Greg. Wilson was protecting them both.

Looking at the clock again, Stacy drummed her pen on the desk, still holding the phone to her chest. There was a chance… if Wilson couldn't tell her, Cuddy wouldn't either. But maybe… Stacy dialed. "Hi, yes, I'm trying to reach a patient there- Gregory House." Stacy hadn't been sure what to expect, but she hadn't expected the phone to click over and begin dialing. She'd been transferred. She was even more shocked when the phone was picked and answered with a bone weary, yet flustered, "Hello," from Greg House. So it was that she was momentarily stunned. But Greg continued to speak after a moment's pause. "Listen, I really don't do the heavy breathing thing…" Definitely Greg.

"Hey," she sighed, relieved and unsure at the same time.

It was House's turn to be off-guard. He'd been dozing off his last morphine bolus, having thrown a hand over his eyes to drown the remaining light coming from the window. The cops had left two hours prior, and House couldn't have been happier to be alone. He'd flipped through television channels for thirty minutes before he realized he was drifting off. The interview had been too long, the statement making and signing dry and boring. The cops couldn't tell him anything he didn't already know. And House knew that his statement was just a procedural matter- that his recollection was the poorest of any of the other witnesses. Though the woman detective had raised House's interest the slightest degree. A woman with a badge and a gun. But then he'd seen her wedding band and the diamond accompanying it. And her clothing- not a provocative item in sight. All business, and frumpy at that. This was not a woman with secrets. Stacy Warner on the other hand…

She'd interrupted a damn nice nap. One of those naps that sounds like nothing. Where thoughts, sound, life, cease to exist. But the phone rang and he'd struggled, blindly reaching to shut it up and had ended up answering instead. He really hadn't expected a call. Wilson had said that she'd called him once she'd found out, but not much else. House wondered if there wasn't more to the story.

"So how are you?" Stacy was asking when he didn't respond. House could hear reluctance in her voice. Or maybe embarrassment.

"Good," he responded, relaxing back into the pillows. He didn't need it, but he poked the morphine again, sighing. Stacy heard the beep through the receiver. "A few extra holes in me."

"They've got you on the good stuff, huh?"

"Nothing but the good stuff for the good doctor."

"Do you need a lawyer?" It was Stacy's half attempt at a joke, an icebreaker. It was a play on House's accusation that she was an ambulance chaser and the fact that when House was involved, he was usually provoking a situation.

House contained a weak sighing smirk. He missed their conversations. No one could keep up like her. "Can I sue his ass?"

Stacy bit her lip, containing her smile. "Hospital costs, time out of work, mental anguish."

"So I could get like a billion bucks from this guy. Never do another day of clinic."

"Is he filthy rich?"

"Don't think so."

"Then no." Stacy sat for a moment, holding the phone with her elbows on her desk. "So really… how are you? When do you get out of there?"

She heard House's scoff on the other end. "Impatient, aren't we? Two weeks maybe. Three?"

Stacy swallowed hard. Then it was serious. Very serious. She hated that he was in pain.

"That long?"

"Depends, actually…" House considered his options. He could tell her that in two weeks, he'd no longer be crippled by pain. Or he could let her believe that he'd never be cured. He realized, despite his desire for a respite and a chance to live, that he wanted Stacy to remain guilty. It was _her_ fault. That wouldn't change. He knew, from the way she acted, from the way they'd split, that she felt guilty, despite her insistence that his life had been saved. Ruined was a better term for it- in every regard. She was guilty. She would stay guilty.

"Depends on what?" Stacy had heard the pending in Greg's voice. There was something else to this story. The trick was being tactful enough for him to disclose it.

"If I live," House responded, sarcastic.

"You're talking on the phone, so I'm guessing you have your own room. You're out of ICU," Stacy stated. She knew hospitals. She wasn't an idiot. "Where did the bullets hit?"

"I have all my important parts." House's tone was seductive, suggestive.

"As if you need them…"

House was tired, very tired. He wanted rest and quiet and not to be cradling the phone against his sore neck. Moreover, he wanted out of this conversation. Talking to her inevitably led him down a path that he shouldn't tread. Her talking usually meant him talking. She could get answers from him like no one else. House instead focused his attention to the logic of the situation. Why had she called? It was interesting, wasn't it? After he'd pushed away, told her to leave… she'd still called. She was still concerned, or was it curiosity? Stacy knew, beyond everyone, what she could do to him and yet she'd called him directly. House had a very good idea that Wilson had no clue. The situation was beginning to set House on edge. "Why are you calling?"

Stacy was caught off guard. She shouldn't have been. It was just like him- to find the logic behind an emotional reaction. "I was worried," she said, serious.

"You could've called Wilson… or Cuddy…"

"I did," she admitted. "But they weren't calling back and they didn't tell me much. I hadn't heard anything for a few days. Excuse me for caring." The sarcasm was back in her voice. She was confident again.

"I'm okay. I'm not dying." House answered her unspoken question simply. Giving her that information was all she needed to know.

"Good. I'm glad."

"Don't call here again."

The table had turned so quickly that Stacy couldn't respond. By the time her mouth had opened in an attempt to issue a comeback, the line was dead, replaced by the empty dial tone. The tears in her eyes welled up unexpectedly and she swiped at them, trying to obliterate the hurt. God, he still had the ability to hurt her so much.

Stacy sat in her office for twenty more minutes, picking up one of her cases and jotting down some notes. When her eyes were clear and her thoughts turned completely to the case, she went to the restroom, cleaned her face, reapplied her makeup and went home to Mark.


	17. Terrorist

**2nd to last... enjoy :) **

_Can somebody tell me now who is this terrorist  
Those girls that smile kindly then rip your life to pieces?  
Can somebody tell me now am I alone with this  
This little pill in my hand and with this secret kiss  
Am I alone in this... _

A matter of complication  
When you become a twist  
For their latest drink  
As they're transitioning

Can somebody tell me now who is this terrorist  
This little pill in my hand that keeps the pain laughin'  
Can somebody tell me now a way out of this -  
That sacred pipe of red stone could blow me out of this kiss  
Am I alone in this...

_Tori Amos (with Damien Rice)_

_The Power of Orange Knickers  
_

Chapter 17: Terrorist

Everything was black when the pain awoke him, burning and insatiable. Somehow he'd twisted too far to his right and the weight of his left leg rested on his right, its weight crushing damaged muscle and nerve. Then there was his gut: the incision, though days old now, was burning, and he was vaguely nauseous. Sweat weighed his shirt down, plastering it to his skin uncomfortably. He was gasping, he realized. Nearing hyperventilation. Slow breaths- in through the nose, out through the mouth. But it wasn't getting better. Where was the magic button? Hadn't he fallen asleep with it in his hand? Now he groped, blindly between the rail and the mattress, down towards his leg, up to his neck. It was nowhere. Forward and back. Sideways. Under sheets? Under blanket? Dammit. Near tears, or maybe it was sweat making the skin beneath his eyes crawl, he accidentally hammered his hand on the rail and couldn't stop the cry that emanated from his lips. He cradled the hand to his chest, realizing that the iv was gone. That was strange…

"I wanna see you suffer." House startled. The voice seemed to resound in the darkness, the 's' slithering along the walls. House stopped breathing a moment. The shooter was in the room with him. What the hell? Had he gotten out? His gasping breaths resumed: panic.

"Then you're gonna suffer…" Stacy? He blinked, trying to clear his eyes, make them adjust to the dark. But they wouldn't, couldn't. He couldn't see anyone. Absurdity. The blackness was suffocating him, their voices taunting. Either he was in some strange coma, or he was dreaming… hallucinating perhaps. He tried to recall- had they given him the Ketamine yet? He couldn't be sure.

"The best option is amputation…" Cuddy now, softly, speaking to someone else. "We have to remove the damaged brain. There are prosthetics…"

"What are his chances?"

"He'll be significantly impaired, but he'll be alive."

"He's already useless." Moriarty again. Preposterous. They couldn't all be here. It had to stop.

"Hates life anyway. Just let him die." His father. Good god. This was…

"We could take care of him, Mark and I."

_Stop._ House tried to form the words, but they wouldn't come out. His mouth couldn't move, vocal cords paralyzed. He was muted and writhing again, still twisting from the pain. Couldn't they see that? Couldn't they at least knock him out? Despite having the strongest hunch that none of it was real, it was nonetheless disturbing. It was one of those dreams- one where he knew that nothing made sense, and everything was absurd. But it felt real and he couldn't wake up. Sweat dripped down his face and he was suddenly immersed in it, sinking in a pool of warm liquid. There was a buzzing sound, a drill, they were killing him. He flailed again, but nothing was in reach. When he inhaled, he inhaled blood. It filled his mouth as his ears were filled with the drill. Sinking, drowning in blood. Conscious thought was slipping away. Why did they want him dead? What had he done to deserve it? All the lives he'd saved…everything he'd done… swallowed in the black hole of meaninglessness. It couldn't be real…

House awoke, alone, clutching the sheets and completely drenched in sweat. And the pain really did exist- he hadn't dreamed that part. The drilling sound was coming from the iv pump: it buzzed relentlessly, fracturing the darkness. The darkness wasn't as complete as the dream- orange lights from the street filtered through narrow blinds, leaving a ladder on the floor leading to the bed. House used it to find the PCA, tucked next to the rail. He gave it a few testing taps and tossed it away. Useless. He tapped the button for a nurse and waited.

He supposed, looking back on it, that the dream had been the product of too much crap in his head. The shooting was on his mind constantly. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about it, to stop wondering what had happened during the time that he'd been hallucinating. How much did he bleed? How close was he to death? How did Moriarty find him? Why? Was revenge enough of a motive for murder?

Then there were the visitors, phone calls, and an uncomfortable closeness with Cuddy. The mix of everything culminated in his subconscious until he was left here, in the dark, in pain, unable to sleep. He needed out of there- either physically or via medication.

Minutes passed. Too long. If he'd been in ICU, this problem would have been solved before he was even awake.

The longer he laid there, the more his mind raced. The pain was enough that he knew he wouldn't sleep. The room, with its single window, was making him claustrophobic and the voices in his dream still echoed. His hands and feet kept hitting the rails on the bed whenever he moved. Too tight. The whole hospital was making him claustrophobic. The drugs made it better, bearable. A drugged bubble was much bigger than a reality bubble. But they were gone now and the nurses weren't coming to give him more.

The walker he'd been using during his tortuous session with Karl was by the foot of his bed. He remembered each session in vivid, painful detail. He hated the walker, the meaning of it. Walkers went with nursing homes, not a middle-aged doctor. But this was a dire situation. He couldn't just sit it out. God knew what the nurses were doing. He could be there all night. Pharmacy raiding in the middle of the night was always nice- risky though. Locked cabinets could be found near the nurses station. But he didn't have a key. He'd go to the station then, ask them for a key. If he could go further, there was that little stash of Vicodin he had hidden in his desk. They wouldn't work as well as the morphine, but it was something. House looked at the outline of the walker, dreading its use, but wanting out of the room. He shut his eyes. Just a moment. Might as well give it a shot. It wasn't too far.

House lifted himself to a sitting position, grimacing, and tugged his legs to the side of the bed, testing his feet on the cold linoleum. Good. It had taken him over a full minute to get this far. Still no nurse. He pulled the cardiac leads off, careful to unplug the whole machine, then the useless iv.

Sighing, he pushed up with his arms, raising himself to his feet for a second. Using the bed as a crutch, he shuffled the step to the walker and dropped his hands into position. Easy enough. To maneuver it was another matter. After he'd flipped the alarm off, he began making his way to the doorway. It took him longer than it should have.

He walked slowly, the tightness in his torso and the pain in his leg preventing quicker movements,. Strange how quiet everything seemed to be. The only sound was the ventilation and his forced breaths. Only one pair of nurses rushed past him, pushing a cart laden with supplies, on the way to some big emergency. The nurses didn't seem to notice him so he pressed onto the desk.

House was used to roaming the halls late at night. Patients often didn't have time to wait for a doctor to go home and get some sleep. House preferred the nighttime hospital halls to the day. Less people. Less noise. Just the sound of flickering flouresence, the ventilation system, and the occasional alarm.

The nurse's station was empty. They'd all gone. Even the computers were blank screens. House frowned. Useless. Only one option now. He pressed on a few more steps to the elevator.

Maybe he was getting better, like Wilson said. Walking didn't seem so difficult now. His stomach felt okay. His leg felt remarkably good compared to previous days. Maybe all he needed was a little rehab. Strengthening and stretching might work. Some recovery time for sure- his stamina was in the toilet. But maybe the Ketamine was too extreme- too risky.

He stared up at the lights as the elevator climbed a floor, testing the flexibility of his neck and shutting his eyes as he felt the tightness there. He did his best not to think. Thinking was helping nothing at the moment. Thinking was serving him to remind him of everything he didn't want to think about- Stacy, his father, his life. Why couldn't his brain just stop? As necessary and as entertaining as it sometimes was, now it was just an annoyance- filling him with self-doubt and regret. Who was he? Regrets sucked. Blame was much easier. It was never_ his_ fault when things went wrong…

When the elevator sounded the fourth floor, the doors opened and he pushed out, towards his office. He could see it now, a dark window in a hallway full of fluorescence. Yellow tape was plastered against the glass door, sealing it against anyone entering. Upon closer examination, House could see the tape had been cut. Whatever investigation had been done was done- no one had removed the tape but someone had gone into the office.

House sat in front of the door for a moment, looking both ways down the hallway, resting. The roll down the hallway had tested his energy reserves. He was depleted. This was a crappy idea.

The office was quiet with the exception of the fridge humming away in the adjoining conference room. That's where it happened. That's where his life changed.

Curious, he moved towards the room, putting off his desire for the meds in favor of satisfying the need to see it for himself. The lights from outside gave him just enough light. Pale orange flitted over the floor of the office, illuminating the white board and the glaring dark stains beneath it. Christ. The stain was smaller than he imagined- spreading a foot in diameter beneath where he must have laid bleeding, unconscious. There were lighter stains spread out from there, drips, smears and he thought he could make out the slightest hint of urine in the air. Urine and blood and death. God, he'd hoped he'd just hallucinated that part of it. That he hadn't pissed his pants in front of his subordinates. But he had. Christ. Bled and pissed and almost died.

It didn't matter to House that his subordinates were all doctors; that his response had been involuntary, understandable in medical terms. It wouldn't have mattered if it was a patient, but it was him. He'd been the vulnerable one, the patient. He hated it. Some part of him was thankful that he'd been mostly unconscious during the event. Whatever parts he had been conscious for had been translated into a dream. He hadn't seen any of reality until the ER. Having been saved from consciousness by rapid blood loss, he couldn't have realized, at the time, what had happened and he had gratefully missed the pathetic stares and concern.

House wondered, for a moment, what had happened after the gun had swung back on him and how he'd survived. He had been so sure that he was going to die- the gun was just a few feet away and pointed at his face. Did Moriarty miss? Wilson had told him that Foreman had been the one to act- but he'd been vague on the details. Whatever. Moriarty was in jail. House was alive.

Prying his eyes off the stains, House looked around more. His cane was still on the ground where it had fallen off the whiteboard. He could see chalk marks on the carpet, no doubt put there by the police. Markers. He could see a mark near the blood stain- the top of his head maybe? Another one near the smudges that would've come from his abdomen; another at where his feet would've been. House turned, facing the doorway, from which Moriarty had come into the office. Another mark inevitably depicted where Moriarty had stood and House was startled when the fleeting image of his face appeared behind his eyelids: a split second flashback in the space of a blink. Just a flashback. He shook his head and turned back to the white board.

Red letters streaked across the board in front of House's eyes. Written by an unseen hand, the words formed one at a time, quickly, purposefully. "Are you sure?"

As House looked down again, the blood stain seemed to come alive. He could see it now, oozing along the carpet, spreading, invading. It was crawling up the walls, the white board, enveloping the cane. When he turned again, Moriarty was staring at him, a smirk on his face. He began a soft laugh, amused. "Scared House? Where's your rationality now?"

Shaking his head, House began backing towards his office. He shouldn't be afraid; he shouldn't be concerned. This was another nightmare. When did he fall asleep? Why was he dreaming again?

The blood was crawling up his legs now, moving in conglomerated forms of red leeches. They sucked at his skin as they moved, gnawing him. They moved over his right thigh, covering it, and began invading him through the scar there. He watched as they pushed through the thin skin, digging.

Panicked, House wiped at them with his hands, but they latched on there too, multiplying and moving. They were at his gut now and House fell to the ground as they pushed in through the incision there. He wouldn't scream. He wouldn't scream. This wasn't real.

"Who's going to help you, House? You've sucked all the life out of yourself. No one helps a dead man."

House lay gasping, reaching towards nothing. Helpless.

He was coated now and he could feel the leeches moving towards his face and eyes. They moved over his mouth and he tried to spit at them. But they moved into his mouth. Covered his ears. Blinded his eyes. He screamed.

* * *

When he'd come back to the nurse's station, Donnie had noticed that 302 had multiple alarms. Christ, was the night going to end? First the crash in 309 and then this. Every alarm in the room was going off. For how long? Donnie cursed. Judy had called in. Meredith was out sick. Murphy's law prevailed. 302, to Donnie, was more of a nuisance than anything. So what if he was a doctor in the hospital. Knowing what he knew, Donnie guessed that the multiple alarms were more than likely the result of the patient screwing with something he shouldn't. Doctors made the worst patients… always trying to fix their own problems without telling anyone else. 

Despite his preconceived notions, Donnie raced towards the end of the hall, bursting through the door of 302 to see the patient lying on his side, moaning, struggling against the covers. Donnie flipped on the light. The cardiac leads had been ripped out. The iv alarm would have been going off, but it was unplugged. Beads of sweat rolled off the patient's head. There was blood dripping down his arm and sheets where the iv had been ripped out. From the look on Dr. House's face, he was either in great pain or having a heck of a dream. Maybe both.

Slightly relieved that the patient was still alive (and apparently kicking), Donnie put a calming hand to his shoulder. "Dr. House," he said, loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to startle. House didn't respond at first and Donnie tried again. "Dr. House, wake up."

House's eyes snapped open and his shoulder, under Donnie's hand, clenched. His surprised gasp quickly turned into a pained groan and his composure visibly tightened as his head fell back to the pillows.

Donnie was a trained nurse and fifteen years of experience dictated his actions. The monitors were unplugged, he couldn't read the patient's stats automatically. He took the wrist, counted beats against the movements on his watch: fast, but strong, and breaths were slowing down. "You with me, Dr. House?"

His eyes opened again, but were less surprised. "What the hell's wrong with you people?"

"We had a crash down the hall." Donnie moved, reached for a drawer, taking out a manual blood pressure cuff. He wrapped the band around the patients arm, began pumping, let it go: A little high. "In some pain, Dr. House?"

"What do you think, asshole? Jesus, that alarm went off for ten minutes." He was gasping, tired.

Donnie frowned, nodded, but remained silent. Admit no mistake. Instead, he moved to the monitors, plugging them back into the wall. He rearranged the i.v., plugged it back in, reprogrammed the PCA pump, and reinserted it into a new vein.

Donnie sat back and waited while the drugs took effect. When he began to see the glaze coming over Dr. House's eyes, he began reattaching the cardiac leads. Easier that way.

"Need anything else Dr. House? You're pretty drenched there. Want a gown?"

"No," House muttered, sleepy again. "Wanna sleep."

Donnie's brows lifted. Fine. Whatever. The guy had enough strength to rip monitors out, he had enough strength to deal with his sweat-soaked clothes himself. It was only a few hours to morning rounds. Donnie flipped off the light again. Another crisis averted.


	18. Hope in a Handgun

_We're threading hope like fire  
Down through the desperate blood  
Down through the trailing wire  
Into the leafless wood_

_David Gray_

_Disappearing World_

Chapter 18: Hope in a Handgun

Cuddy examined herself one more time in the mirror. Tired, she mused. Old. Crow's feet and dark circles smothered with make-up. The cliché sprang to mind- where had her youth gone? Youth was wasted on the young? She tapped her lipstick with a Kleenex, tossed the waste in the bin, smoothed her black straight skirt one more time, and went back to the kitchen.

She hadn't slept well since it happened. The first night, she hadn't slept at all- she hadn't gone home. It wasn't often that she stayed overnight for a patient. She'd worked hard to get (semi) regular hours. But House was technically her patient and her employee. She'd made a guilty commitment to him once one of her doctors had misdiagnosed him and once again when she'd given Stacy the release forms and allowed the surgeon to chop away. Cuddy had spent the night periodically dealing with media, catching up on cases, and watching as Cameron and Wilson paced. She'd dosed up on caffeine the following day, filled in for House's clinic hours, and actually finished her catch-up work. She'd tried to steer away from House's ICU bed- Wilson and Cameron had that taken care of. He was in good hands. But she'd found herself there more often than not- eating lunch from a Styrofoam container at the nurse's station, stopping by after getting another coffee, wandering down after the clinic was closed. On the second night, she'd kicked Wilson and Cameron out. They were making her nervous. Wilson had kept his calm, but stood watching, biting nails, pacing, rubbing his neck. And Cameron had just been annoyingly tearful. Surprisingly, they'd given little fight.

Wilson aided, offering Cameron a ride home after he made Cuddy promise to call if anything changed. Cuddy had been relieved to have them out of her way. And when she'd heard an awakening groan from House later that night, and seen him open his eyes, she'd been almost ecstatic. He hadn't stayed awake for long- just long enough to show her that he was still himself, still cognizant of his surroundings and of her. He'd asked all the right questions and avoided her own. After he'd fallen back to sleep that night, Cuddy had immediately called Wilson, fulfilling the promise that she made to him. She slept in the chair next to his bed until Wilson arrived a few hours later, showered and shaved.

Now her duties and her responsibility to him were making her do something that she knew might jeopardize his career and his life. He asked. She owed.

God, it was dangerous.

It really was too bright and sunny. It wasn't right. Days like this should be rainy, or at least overcast. Something should hint at foreboding, of danger. Something should tell her that nothing was fair. Something should tell her that she was about to put her best doctor's life on the line even more than it already was. But it was sunny, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Birds sang. Children laughed at the bus stop. Grabbing her steel coffee mug and her bag, Cuddy left her house. She shielded her eyes, whispered a laughing curse.

It was 7:30 when she got there, pushing through her office doors, setting her mug on her desk. The clinic wouldn't be open for another thirty minutes. House's team was due back today and Cuddy had already collected a stack of consults they could shift through while she worked through details with the ethics committee and the lawyers over House's treatment. She'd done the preliminary work. All that was left was the decision. And telling House. She and Wilson had gone so far as hinting that they would comply with his wishes- but they hadn't given a definite answer. Maybe that should be her first priority: before she fought for him, she'd make sure he was still willing to throw punches himself. If he'd changed his mind, had any doubts, then she wouldn't have this decision to make.

Cuddy sat her mug on her desk and left her office, heading towards House's room, murmuring _good mornings_ to the nurses and doctors as she passed purposefully through the halls and up the stairs.

She knocked before she entered, out of courtesy more than necessity. She knew House wouldn't be awake and he wouldn't tell her to open the door. When Cuddy opened the door, she was momentarily confused.

The sheets were messed, the i.v.'s were dangling from their hooks, and the monitors were unplugged. Cuddy's first reaction was abject fear. Maybe publicity had alerted some other psycho that wanted to take his revenge out on House. God, should she have posted a guard at his door? Her stomach was flipping, there was a lump the size of China in her throat, she felt ill.

He was just being House. Typical, she convinced herself. Wilson took him for a walk. House escaped. Something. Cuddy picked up the chart- last check at 2:30AM. Nothing since. Sucking in her fear and agitation and exhaling irritation, she dipped her chin and headed to the nurse's station.

The nurse at the desk, Vicky, was new. Cuddy had met her just a few days prior. She was young, just out of school, and seemed capable, hard-nosed, perfect for the job. Cuddy swallowed anyway, and spoke in low tones.

"Have you seen Dr. House this morning?" Vicky was well aware of the resident in 302. He'd been the talk of the hospital. Spared having to work with him in the short time she'd been at the hospital, Vicky had heard rumors flying since the day she arrived. How Dr. House was a mad scientist; Dr. House was a grumpy and manipulative bastard; Dr. House was screwing the Dean and got to keep his job; Dr. House cured the incurable; Dr. House was the best doctor in the hospital. Vicky had been off the day Dr. House had been shot, but she'd watched the news, heard the story from the other nurses. And now he was on her wing, but she'd not had to deal with him as a patient either. Some part of her was curious. The other was uneasy.

Vicky frowned, shook her head. "No. He's not in his room?" Cuddy shook her head, tapped her fingers on the desk. "Check the bathroom?"

There was a reason this kid had been hired. Cuddy's eyes widened, her lips pursed, and she headed down the hall towards the bathroom. She knocked again, called out, and found the bathroom empty.

Keep it discreet. Don't panic yet, she told herself. This was just like House. The room hadn't looked out of order, there was no obvious sign of struggle. He was fine, the bastard.

"Who was on duty last night? After 2AM?" Cuddy was standing in front of Vicky again, her hands crossed in front of her on the counter.

Vicky was clicking buttons on the computer. "Donnie Rogers and Carolyn Oblinger. But 309 crashed around 3AM. So…"

"Everyone left the desk?" Cuddy sighed.

Vicky shrugged. "No idea," she responded. "No way to see that in here."

Cuddy ducked her chin again, sighed. Where would House go- if he went on his own will? Before she had the chance to think about it, her pager was going off. Pulling it from its holster, she read the numbers and sighed: relief.

* * *

House swiped the towel over his face again, then ran it over the top of his head as he stared into the bathroom mirror. His face, too heavily bearded for his own taste, was pale, drawn. His eyes looked puffy. Gray circles stood out underneath the red rims. Heck of a night. Too much pain, too many fucked up things in his head, too little sleep. 

He shook his head, swiped at his eyes. Exhaustion pulled at him. He hadn't gained his stamina back, but this, he knew was due more to the sleepless night he'd had than the injuries and illness. It was 8AM, he needed a nap. Or coffee. Maybe both. After the nurse had come in and pushed the morphine up again, he'd slept, fitfully, awaking every hour until seven, wondering if he was in reality. At 7:09, he'd gotten Wilson on the phone and convinced him to push him down to the showers. Wilson had balked, claiming he had his own patients to attend to. House pulled his best sick face and told Wilson how the nurses had ignored him for an hour that morning while he endured alarms and a desperate need for pain meds. "Don't leave me with those idiots," House had pleaded. "Or I'll tell the entire hospital that you read Cosmo in bed."

House examined the lay out of the materials on the counter. It was the lowered counter, the handicapped accessible one, and everything was within easy reach- even the sink. He picked up the toothbrush and paste first, setting to work on ridding his mouth of the taste of medicene and illness. Washed it all away with the bottle of Listerine. Then the electric razor- set so that it would scrape most (but not all) of the fuzz off his face. Much better.

There was a knock on the door and House looked up in the mirror to see Wilson poking his head into the room.

"Ready yet?" House had been in the room for over an hour. The first fifteen were spent getting rid of the bandages that he still wore. When Wilson moved to his side to help him stand and move to the shower stall, House had glared. Wilson threw his hands up and left, standing outside the door. The shower ran for over thirty minutes. Then the sink. The razor. Wilson had to admit, House looked better.

When he'd come into House's room earlier, it had been obvious that House had had a rough night. The nurse's chart was blank from 2:30 onwards, but Wilson could see a thin line of blood on the mussed sheets. House seemed haggard, yet agitated, raring to leave the room and get a shower and a clean set of clothes. Seeing House's countenance, Wilson hadn't bothered probe into the situation. If House wanted to say something, he would. So Wilson waited. Then he paged Cuddy.

Cuddy met him outside the showers, her hands lifted and an exasperated open mouthed _what the heck_ in her posture. Wilson raised his hands in response, shaking his head. "Rough night I think…" he said, answering her unspoken question.

"The nurses didn't say anything. They didn't chart anything."

_"Something_ happened…"

Cuddy sighed and crossed her arms, looking at the door behind Wilson. "When he comes out of there, I need to talk to him." Wilson looked at his shoes. "I need him to sign the consent form. And I wanted to run it by the ethics committee…"

"I don't think House is going to sue if it goes wrong…"

"Hospital SOP…"

Wilson shook his head knowingly. He got it already. "I'll pass the word…" Wilson supposed that now was as good a time as any. House got his wish for the morning- a shower, a shave, an escape from the room. Time to deal with reality.

House looked at Wilson's head poking through the door and sighed. Glancing one more time in the mirror, he nodded silently and watched as Wilson jammed his grimy clothes and shower supplies into a bag. Wilson hung the bag on the back of the chair and pushed him from the confines of the bathroom.

"Cuddy wants to talk to you," Wilson mentioned once they were in the hallway.

"Yeah."

Wilson frowned. He'd expected more from House. But then everything was changing these days.

"She's getting everything together for your treatment- consent forms, treatment plan…"

House's head tilted to the side and Wilson thought he saw the hint of a smile on the side of House's face. "Good."

"You're sure you're okay? You sound…"

"Stacy called."

Easy enough, Wilson thought. Then he frowned. No prodding required. House was an open book, which meant something else was bothering him. More than likely, House was deflecting questions with less damaging admissions. "When?"

"Last night."

"What did she say?"

Wilson watched as House's shoulders shifted, tightening, then lifting. "Ehh… not much. She thought I might be dead. Once that was settled…"

Sighing, "I should've called her back."

"But then I would've missed the awesome phone sex. Did I mention that part?"

Wilson smirked, and continued to push House towards Cuddy's office. They both stayed silent until they were in the elevator and House spoke again.

"Cops came by yesterday."

It sounded like small talk to Wilson. Something to fill the silence between them. Something to keep House from thinking too much.

"Pair of detectives? Frumpy woman, grumpy guy?"

"Yep."

"I talked to them a few days ago."

Wilson turned the chair and faced House towards the door. A nurse in pink scrubs waved her hand through the door as it was closing, stepped in, smiling at Wilson. "Sorry," she muttered. Wilson smiled back, his foot tapped on the ground behind the chair. House's head tilted to the side, looked up at the numbers as they changed. Their conversation was muted by the presence of the nurse. First floor.

The doors opened and the nurse allowed Wilson and House to exit before leaving herself. House resumed. "What did you tell them?"

It was the opposite of the expected question. Wilson's eyebrows crooked and he slowed for a moment before resuming. "I… told them I didn't see anything."

"Tell them I piss everyone off?"

So this is where it was going. Wilson picked up the pace, moving towards Cuddy's office. "No."

"Tell them about the morphine?"

"Uhh… no."

"So what _did_ you tell them?"

Wilson recollected his interview from the days prior. The cops had come to him in his office. It was early evening the day after the shooting and Wilson hadn't slept. His eyes had trouble focusing on the reports in front of him and the distraction the cops provided allowed him to rest, get some coffee. The cops hadn't probed very deep. They'd asked him about House, about anyone holding a grudge, what Wilson knew about the shooter. Wilson hadn't been blatantly honest, but he'd told as much truth as he could handle. Hold a grudge against House? House saved lives. No, he wasn't a saint. Just a pretty good doctor. Wilson had maintained his calm when the detectives probed further. They needed to know, they said, in case it came up later on. "We've talked to some of the other doctors and nurses here," the man had said. "They say half the hospital staff was cheering. Said your buddy is nasty and has a drug problem. Any way that this shooting could be connected to that?"

Wilson recalled feeling a swelling of anger in his chest. His face might've turned red.

"I write him the prescriptions. He's in legitimate pain. He's not buying. He's not selling. And he doesn't have dealers." _That I know of,_ Wilson thought to himself.

"Enemies?"

"Don't we all?" Wilson had chosen that moment to pick up his pen again and start writing, signaling his reluctance to provide any more information.

"Really," Wilson said to House as they pushed through the doors into Cuddy's office. "I actually didn't tell them anything."

House sighed and his hands lifted from his lap to the arms of the chair, gripping the ends. Wilson stopped walking. Cuddy had watched as they entered, her hands resting casually in her lap, formulating her words. House was in front of Cuddy's desk, doing his best to blatantly stare at her low cut sweater, eyes wide. Cuddy pulled her jacket tighter, limiting his view.

Wilson moved out of the way and took residence in a chair to the right of House. His elbow rested on the arm of the chair, fingers pulling at his lip. Cuddy bit her lip, but she didn't speak. House tapped his fingers, agitated. There was a clock ticking somewhere to his left. Cuddy's ten year hospital service gift. It was engraved. In between ticks, he could hear the click of Wilson's fingernails on his own teeth. "Sooo…." He started. "Is this about the smokebombs in the boy's bathroom? Because I promise it wasn't my idea…"

Cuddy's mouth turned into a smirk that didn't translate to her eyes. Her morning had gotten worse since she'd talked to Wilson. As soon as she'd hung up, her phone had rung again. It had been the police, apologizing. Moriarty was gone, Detective Jones had said. One of seven inmates that overpowered a guard and made a run for it. The dogs lost the scent on the road. Deputies were still searching, agencies notified, photos in post offices. There were no guarantees.

"I just got off the phone with Detective Jones," Cuddy said. She sighed and curled her lower lip in, biting it. "The shooter's gone."

House's head tilted. Wilson's mouth opened. "What do you mean?" House asked.

"He escaped. Early this morning. I just got off the phone with the police."

The room was in silence again. House sighed. "Well then. Saves me the trouble of staring him down in the courtroom." His eyes flashed to Cuddy before turning to the side again, looking at the clock on the wall.

"They're still looking…"

"Yeah yeah…"

"If you want, we can…"

House interjected again, annoyed. "Did you get the consent forms?"

Cuddy sighed, her hands moving to the papers in front of her and sliding them across the desk. House grabbed them, shuffling through to the last page. He gestured to Cuddy to give him a pen. Once it was in his hand, he scribbled a signature and slid the paper back to Cuddy.

"You're sure about this?"

"I just signed the forms, didn't I?"

Cuddy looked down to the form without moving her hands to it. She took the pen and twisted it between her fingers.

"And I'll need an orthopedic consult."

Cuddy's head lifted, questioning. Wilson turned to look at House, confused.

"I haven't had full use of my leg in almost eight years. I want the tendon lengthened. They can do it while I'm under the ketamine." House rambled onwards, keeping Cuddy and Wilson silent. "You induce the coma, put me under, roll me into surgery. Keep me under for five days, full support, bring me out on the sixth. Give me some sort of benzodiazpine before you bring me out. As much fun as hallucinations can be, I don't need to be accidently chasing Tinkerbell out the window." House rubbed his leg, looking down, still speaking. "As long as I'm not seeing big green monsters on the wall- active physio on the seventh day. I'll stay in-house for a week afterwards, then home care with daily physio. Eight weeks should be enough."

Cuddy's eyebrows lifted after House stopped, wondering if he had more to say. It was the most she'd heard out of him in days.

Seeing her reaction, House sighed. "I think we're done here. Wilson, let's go."

* * *

Foreman sat at the conference table, clasped his hands around the red ball, and tossed it in the air. He'd arrived early, and had started the coffee. Then he'd grabbed the stack of consults from the inbox and sat down at the conference table to look through them, trying to avoid the fact that he was sitting in what had been a crime scene. It was a difficult situation. He felt uncomfortable in the room alone- like he didn't belong, shouldn't be there. There were still remnants of it having been a crime scene: white marks on the carpet, black marks on walls, there were new scratches on the conference table. Equipment, Foreman supposed. 

The cane had still been on the floor, the white board still crooked. Foreman straightened it up, erased the words House had written before he'd been shot, hung the cane on top. He'd take it to House later. He'd pointedly avoided looking towards the stain beneath the board, stepping around it. Someone had tried to clean it, but blood was a stubborn substance, clinging onto fibers even when appearing clean. Whatever cleaner they'd tried on it had barely touched it. The red stain remained, repugnant against the brown carpet. Foreman could make out where more blood had gathered, pooling in the darker spots. And the room smelled like an ER room after someone had died: piss and blood mixed with the faintest hint of generic sterilizer. First on Foreman's agenda: hire a professional carpet cleaner. Get some Febreze. The hospital janitors couldn't get the job done.

Foreman's days off had passed in a blur of inactivity. He'd piled up on the couch for a day before he got bored of himself. He'd watched DVD's, paid his bills, made his meals. Then he got bored. So he'd driven to his parents. He really had no life outside the hospital, he realized. But that was how it was supposed to be. He'd chosen this life.

He hated doing it, but his greater sense of morality and care of his family necessitated the visit. His mother probably had another two years of declining health before her. However, whether or not she would remember him during those last two years was debatable. Might as well go see her, while he still could.

Foreman's father had hugged him right as he got out of the car. "Glad to see you, son," he'd said. "Are you staying for long?"

"Just tonight."

Foreman's father had been confused by the news that House had been injured. "But it's a hospital." Foreman had shrugged his shoulders, taking his bag out of the trunk. "It's House." His father shook his head, verbally recalling his own interactions with his son's boss. "How have you been anyway? Since… you know…"

"Good, dad. I'm good."

Foreman hadn't bothered to explain the situation with House and the hospital to his mother. He'd just hugged her, reminded her who he was, and sat with her on the old corduroy couch, while she looked at the television. They had his father's meatloaf, they talked about the weather, the Steelers, he slept, he left.

He'd gotten back to his apartment the night before, ready to go back to work. A night with his parents was almost too much. But he didn't often have the time between work and his attempts at a social life to make the two-hour drive. He should do it more, he thought. For his mother.

Foreman looked up as Cameron and Chase entered the room together. Cameron was holding a paper bag - bagels. She tossed them on the table in front of Foreman. Foreman opened the bag, probing until he found the plain bagel.

"Thanks," he muttered.

"You're welcome," Cameron responded, going to the coffee maker. Chase dropped into the chair across from Foreman, running a hand through his hair.

"Talk to House?" Chase asked Foreman.

Foreman shook his head. "No."

"They give him the Ketamine?"

Shrug. Cameron stepped back to the table and handed Chase a cup of coffee. He seemed surprised by the gesture, but took the coffee. Foreman smirked. Cameron spoke up.

"I talked to Wilson yesterday. He's going through with it this week."

Thank God, Foreman thought. The guy had been in pain for years. He figured that House was probably an asshole before, but he also figured that his pain affected both his judgment and his mood. He'd seen it before and it was easy to discern. The more pain House was in, the more he became a bastard, rushing tests, rushing diagnoses. He also asked more questions, did less thinking for himself. Just the previous week, Foreman had watched as House paced, questioning the simplest of problems. What did this drug do to this organ? What was supposed to happen? If House had been thinking clearly, the answer would've been simple. But instead, House had had to rely on his team as he paced, sweated, rubbed the leg. House was brilliant. But there was no doubt that his brilliance, and his life, were hindered. It wasn't fair, Foreman thought. But there was nothing fair in life. It certainly hadn't been fair that he'd gotten singled out to search a cop's trashy apartment and picked up a brain-damaging organism from an irrigation system. He'd healed though. House hadn't.

Foreman lifted his head from the consult letter he was reading. "Good. So how long is he out?" Foreman moved the letter to sit in front of Chase. Chase picked it up, began reading, sipping his coffee. Just like any other day. Except no House.

"Who knows. The Ketamine itself has a whole set of side effects. And he's gotta have rehab." Cameron reached into her briefcase, pulling out a stack of papers, cinched with a binder clip. She tossed it on the table in front of Foreman. "I did some research."

Foreman's hands spread wide on the table, around the stack of papers. It was at least an inch thick. Just like her- nosing into House's treatment. Was she trying to be helpful? Or was she just curious? Maybe she had a plan of her own. Nurse him back to health. Screw his brains out.

"So you spent your days off doing this?" Foreman probed, cynical.

"Yeah," Cameron responded. "Did you have something better to do?"

Foreman pushed his chair back, standing. "Yeah, actually I did." He moved to the coffee pot, refilling his cup. The seconds that it took him to walk to the coffee machine made him think that now would be a good time to change the subject. Keep it professional, he reminded himself. Let her do her thing, move past it.

"We need a case," Foreman said. "That stack of consults came in while we were gone. So we have our choice."

"Who died and made you boss?" Chase asked.

Foreman frowned. This again. "House- almost. While he's out, I'm technically in charge."

"Like you did such a great job last time," Cameron muttered.

Foreman, annoyed, but understanding her criticism, sat again. "Listen, it's nothing against you guys. I figure really, we'll just be working together. It's a team thing. The only thing is that I'll report to Cuddy and my name will be on the charts. No big deal."

Chase sipped his coffee, silent. Foreman noted that he was staring at the floor near the empty whiteboard. Cameron, sitting with her back to the board, grabbed a bagel and a third of the stack of mail. He hoped House would be back soon.

* * *

House watched as his mother entered his room. She smiled at him, watched as her husband came through the door with a scowl on his face. They were always so predictable. It was how he got away with so much when he was a kid. With the exception of his father's deployments, they were creatures of routine. Up at 6AM, coffee brewed, cereal poured, off to work, out to errands, home at 5:30PM, to bed by 9PM, lights out by 10PM. House used the routine against them. Out the window: 11:30PM, back in by 5AM. Enough time to make use of his girlfriend's mustang's backseat, to smoke a few joints, smuggle a six pack out of the liquor store and drink it down by the creek. And he'd never been caught. Not once. 

"Can't believe those idiots," John House muttered as he paced the length of his son's hospital bed. "How difficult is it for a guy with a gun to control a couple without 'em?" House pursed his lips and watched his mother's smile turn south. She sat down in the chair next to the bed.

"You won't worry about it, right Greg?" she asked, concerned. "He probably ran as far away from here as he could get."

House smothered a hopeful smirk and changed the subject. He didn't want to think about the guy. It wasn't a productive thought process. Wasn't like he could do anything about it. "How are you guys today? I'm feeling better."

His dad stopped pacing, moving to stand, hands on hips in front of House's bed. "Wilson says you're going through with this… experiment tomorrow. Do you think that it's a good time now, when…"

House's nod interrupted his father's concern. "If he breaks into the ICU and sees me, he'll think I'm vegetative. Pretty good ruse, huh?" As much as House could figure, it made more sense if he ignored Moriarty's escape. Kind of like going undercover.

The fact that his attacker had escaped didn't bother him as much as it should have- especially considering the state of his dreams the previous night. If he'd been his own doctor, he would've said that he repressed it. PTSD. But House relegated repression to the realm of the Freudians, a club to which he didn't belong. And PTSD? Whatever. The guy shot him. So? What else was he going to do, kill him? The guy had one-upped him the first time by coming unannounced, unexpected, and unknown. House knew him now, knew his name, knew his story. Unless Moriarty had a high powered rifle or a telepathic death ray, he wasn't going to be able to touch House. It was fine- the whole thing. If he hadn't been shot, he wouldn't be taking this chance on the Ketamine. And if it worked, getting shot was a good thing. It was the pain, he rationalized. The pain that Moriarty inflicted on him flipped his fear reaction. Nothing else.

"Will you need us?" House's mom asked. "For after…?"

House shook his head, frowning. "No, Mom. Go home. I'll be here for a while and then I'll be fine. If it works, I'll be better than I was before. Piece of cake. I'll call when its over."

The sigh that was his mother's response was as sure fire as Wilson's next affair. "You always did get along by yourself…" She reached for his hand, held it there for a moment. He wrapped his fingers around hers, gently, feeling the thin, yet solid warmth encompassing his own. The simple gesture gave him the slightest bit of comfort and his lips turned into a thin smile again.

"So when you're all healed up…." His dad started, "then what?"

House hadn't expected that question. Less than predictable. He had no good answer for it, so he shrugged. "Win the Boston Marathon? Join the Olympic team, beat Tiger Woods."

His dad shook his head, grunted. "Sure." It was a cynical notion. One that told House that his father knew he was being sarcastic. John House never had a great appreciation for sarcasm.

"But really Greg…" his mother now, starting in on the topic. "Will this really make you happy?"

House contemplated her words for a moment, moving his hand away from hers and back under the sheets to rest against his hip. It might not make him happy- not in that cheery, gooey, obvious way that cheerleaders eluded. He'd always be sarcastic. But happy in the way that he'd be freed from constraint, emancipated from crippledom. And maybe, just maybe, that would allow him to help someone a little bit more. To not see pity in their eyes every time he staggered into the room. To instead, turn care in the opposite direction and alleviate someone else's pain instead of being focused on rising above his own by sheer deductive power. He could do this. It made sense to do this.

House found himself tangled in his thought, lingering between spilling his innermost fears and driving his parents away with some sarcastic snap or a claim that he needed sleep. Resolving to do neither, he sighed. "I have to try this."

House looked to his mother for a half second and then his attention was drawn to the door. Wilson was knocking and he was looking out into the hallway like someone was behind him. Guererro. The orthopedic guy.

"Are we interrupting?" Wilson asked, walking into the room.

"No," the elder House responded. "We were just talking."

"You sure? We can do this later…"

"No no." His mother rose from her position near him and looked at her husband. House watched as effortless and wordless communication flowed between them. "We should be going. Things to pack up. And Greg needs to get ready for tomorrow."

"You're leaving?" Wilson asked, confused. House's eyes rolled back in his head. Wilson would never get it.

"We've got the neighborhood association meeting day after tomorrow. John's the president, so he should be there."

"Um. Okay," Wilson responded. His mouth was turned into the characteristic frown, his eyes dark. House figured that Wilson probably thought his parents were ditching him instead of the other way around. Let him think it. Guerrero stood behind him, pamphlets in hand, oblivious to the conversation. What did he know… or care?

His mother turned once more to House, touched his chest. "Are you sure you don't need anything?"

"I'm fine mom."

"Okay. Call us."

House nodded, watched them leave. Guerrero moved to stand next to the bed, shrouding his view of his parents exiting. House looked up to him, determined.

"I've been over your file, House," he started. He started pulling out images, old ones, and putting them up next to each other in the air. "Tendon lengthening will reduce your pain, give you more mobility. But there is considerable risk- too long, too short… and rehab time…"

"Then I guess you'll have to get it right."

* * *

It was almost dinner when Wilson and Cuddy outlined the full treatment plan to him. He read through their plan, drawn up between Cuddy and Guerrero. Cuddy would be in charge of monitoring the coma; Guerrero in charge of the orthopedic side. It took him thirty minutes to read through the plan while Cuddy waited in the plastic chair. Remarkedly, House didn't say anything. He didn't even make notations. He glanced at Cuddy once, gave her a satisfactory nod and handed it back to her. "Looks good." 

Later, after they left, House couldn't stop the tirade echoing in his head. When he shut his eyes that night, he saw the black muzzle of a semiautomatic gun pointed at his face, a blurry image of the man wielding it, felt the pinch in his stomach. It was terrifying. Terrifying to try to rationalize it. But then it did make sense, in some nearly inconceivable cosmic way. House realized then, drifting off to the feel of a morphine buzz, that the black muzzle of that gun didn't look or sound like death anymore. The universe supposedly started with a bang. He'd try it that way.

* * *

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